The Other Side of Me

I rented an office on Beverly Drive. When Groucho heard about it, he said, "What are you going to do, become a dentist?"



I called my agent, told him I was available, and sat back and waited for the calls to pour in.



The phone never rang.



In the theater, a playwright is judged by his best play, no matter how many failures there are after that. In Hollywood, a writer is judged by his last movie, no matter how many hits he might have written before. I was being judged for Dream Wife. I had gotten a release from my MGM contract at the worst possible time, when the film business was going downhill. The end of block booking was hurting the studios.



Block booking was the practice that the studios had for putting their movies into theaters. If they had a picture coming out with a popular star, the theaters that were eager to acquire that picture were forced to also take four minor movies from the studio, so there was always a block of five. When the exhibitors filed a lawsuit, the government stepped in and stopped the practice.



There were other problems, as well. During the war, people were starved for entertainment and they would flock into theaters. Now that the war was over, they were more particular. Television had become a new form of entertainment and its popularity was costing the theaters money. One more problem was added to the mix: Foreign income had always been a big part of a picture's gross. Now, England and Italy and France were making their own movies, and that cut into the foreign revenue of the Hollywood studios.



I went into a deep depression. Jorja was doing an occasional television show, but not nearly enough to cover our expenses. I had not been concerned about money for a long time, but now I had a wife to support and the situation was different. The longer I was out of work, the more pressure I was under. The weeks were dragging by and there were no job offers.



Natalie would have said, "Hollywood doesn't know talent when they see it."



William Goldman said it differently: "Nobody in Hollywood knows anything . . ."



Clark Gable was turned down by MGM, Fox, and Warner Brothers.



Darryl Zanuck said, "His ears are too big. He looks like an ape."



Cary Grant was rejected by several studios. "His neck is too thick."



Of Fred Astaire, a casting director said, "He can't act, can't sing, he can dance a little."



Deanna Durbin was fired from MGM and went to Universal the same day Judy Garland was fired from Universal and went to MGM. Each of them made fortunes for their new studio.



When a network executive saw Star Trek, his only comment was, "Get rid of the idiot with the pointed ears."



A studio chief tried to sell High Noon because he thought it was a disaster. No one wanted it. It became the most successful picture United Artists ever made.



Y. Frank Freeman, at Paramount, thought Shane with Alan Ladd would be a flop. He tried to sell it to other studios. They all turned it down. The picture became a classic.



When the phone finally did ring, it was Judy Garland.



"Sidney, I'm going to do a remake of A Star Is Born and I want you to write the screenplay."



My heart was jumping, but I tried to sound cool.



"That's wonderful, Judy, I'd love to do it." I hesitated a moment and added, "I just directed a picture with Cary Grant, you know. I'd like to direct you in A Star Is Born."



"That would be interesting," Judy said.



I was elated. This was going to make up for the debacle of Dream Wife. I called my agent.



"Judy Garland wants me to write and direct A Star Is Born. Let's make the deal."



"That's good news."



I started planning what I was going to do with the screenplay. A Star Is Born was a classic movie that had been made years earlier with Fredric March and Janet Gaynor.



Two days later, when I had not heard from my agent, I called him.



"Did you close the deal?"



There was a silence, and then he said, "There is no deal. Judy's husband, Sid Luft, just signed Moss Hart to write the screenplay and George Cukor to direct the picture."



A writer has an advantage over an actor or director. In order for actors and directors to work, someone has to hire them. But a writer can work anytime anywhere, writing on speculation. There is one important caveat: he or she has to have the confidence to believe that someone is going to buy a story. I had lost that confidence. Hollywood was full of working writers, but I was not one of them. No one wanted me.



Jorja tried to console me. "You've done some great things, you'll do them again. You're a wonderful writer."



But belief in oneself can't be instilled by others. I was paralyzed, unable to write. Hollywood was full of stories of careers that had gone sour. Emotionally, I was at a dead end. I had no idea how much longer I could hold out.



On July 30, 1953, four months after the Hollywood Reporter's and Variety's negative reviews, Dream Wife opened wide around the country. There had been no publicity about the movie and no star appearances and no attempt to find bookings for the picture.



We're just going to let it die.



The national reviews started to come out and I was stunned.



Bosley Crowther of the New York Times: "As gay a movie mix-up as the summer is likely to bring . . . Nicely escorted to the screen with just the right amount of unmistakable winking under Mr. Sheldon's directorial command."



Time magazine: "A merry little barbeque of Adam's Rib."



St. Paul Minneapolis Dispatch: "As delightful a comedy as ever you'd care to see."



Chicago Tribune: "A tight script and good direction."



Los Angeles Daily News: "Writer/director Sidney Sheldon, whose talent for light comedy stirs our memories of the late Ernst Lubitsch . . ."



Showmen's Trade Review: "A beautifully done feature that will draw audiences into any house regardless of size or locale."



Dream Wife was nominated for the Exhibitors Laurel Award, but it was too late to revive the picture. It was over. Dore had killed it. How did I feel about the reviews? It was like winning the lottery and losing my ticket.



The telephone rang early one morning and before I picked it up, I wondered what more bad news there could be. It was my agent.



"Sidney?"



"Yes."



"You have a ten o'clock appointment at Paramount tomorrow morning with Don Hartman, the head of production."



I swallowed. "Good."



"Don is very punctual, so don't be late."



"Late? I'm leaving now."



Don Hartman had started as a writer. He had written more than a dozen movies, including the Road pictures, with Crosby and Hope. Y. Frank Freeman, who was the head of Paramount, had put Don Hartman in charge of the studio two years earlier.



Every studio has its own aura. Paramount was one of the top majors. Beside the Hope and Crosby Road pictures, the studio produced Sunset Boulevard, Going My Way, and Calcutta.



Don was in his early fifties, upbeat and cordial.



"I'm glad to have you here, Sidney."



He had no idea how glad I was to be there.



"Have you ever seen a Martin and Lewis movie?"



"No." But I certainly knew about Martin and Lewis.



Dino Crocetti had been a boxer, blackjack dealer, singer, and would-be comic. Joseph Levitch had been a stand-up comic in small nightclubs around the country. They met in 1945 and decided to work together, changing their names to Martin and Lewis. Individually, their careers had been unsuccessful. Together they were magic. I had seen a newsreel clip of them when they were playing at the Paramount Theatre in New York, and the streets had been jammed for blocks with screaming admirers.



"We have a picture for them we'd like you to write. It's called You're Never Too Young. Norman Taurog is directing."



I had worked with Norman on Rich, Young and Pretty.



It felt wonderful to be working at a studio again. I had a reason to get up in the morning, knowing that the work I loved to do was waiting for me.



When I got home that first evening, Jorja said, "You look like a different person."



And I felt like a different person. The frustration of being out of a job so long had been corrosive.



Paramount was a very friendly studio and it seemed to me there was much less pressure than there had been at MGM.



You're Never Too Young was the story of a young barber's assistant who is forced to disguise himself as a twelve-year-old boy after getting involved in a jewel robbery. It was a remake of The Major and the Minor, a 1942 film directed by Billy Wilder, and starring Ginger Rogers and Ray Milland.



When I finished the screenplay, we had a reading with the cast, the producer, and the director.



I said to Dean and Jerry, "If there are any lines that bother you, please let me know and I'll be happy to change them."



Dean got to his feet. "Great script. I've got a golf date. Bye."



And he was out the door.



Jerry said, "I have a couple of questions."



We sat there for the next two hours while Jerry asked about the sets, camera angles, our approach to some of the scenes, and what seemed to be a hundred other questions. Obviously the two partners had different priorities.



No one knew it then, but this was a foretelling of why Jerry and Dean split up years later.



You're Never Too Young opened to good reviews and big box office numbers. As a celebration of my newly restored career, I bought a beautiful house in Bel Air, with a swimming pool and lovely grounds. All was right with the world again. I decided it was time for Jorja and me to take another vacation in Europe.



The elevator was up.



"Mr. Hartman wants to see you."



When I walked into Don's office, he said, "I have a project I think you're going to enjoy. Did you ever see The Lady Eve?"



Indeed, I had. It was a Preston Sturges movie starring Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda, about a card shark and his attractive daughter who fleece a naive millionaire during a transatlantic cruise. Complications begin when the daughter falls in love with the victim.



"We're going to remake it with George Gobel," Don said, "and call it The Birds and the Bees."



George Gobel was a young comedian who had had a meteoric rise in television, using a low-key, self-effacing style. Norman Taurog was to direct.



The adaptation of Preston Sturges's screenplay went quickly. David Niven, a charming and amusing man, was signed for the part of the father and Mitzi Gaynor for the daughter, and the picture went into production.



In the middle of shooting, Don called me into his office. "I just bought Anything Goes," he said. "I want you to write the screenplay."



It was a smash Broadway musical, with music and lyrics by Cole Porter, and a libretto by P. G. Wodehouse and my former collaborator Guy Bolton.



The score was one of Cole Porter's best. The problem was the libretto. The story involved a group of people who came in contact with public enemy number thirteen, who had slipped onto the ship to avoid the FBI. I felt that the libretto was old-fashioned and unworkable for a movie, and I told that to Don.



He nodded. "That's what you're here for. Make it work."



I came up with a new story line about two partners who were producing a Broadway play. Each partner, unbeknownst to the other, had met an actress and promised her the starring role in their new production. I showed my outline to Don.



He nodded his approval. "Fine. This will work great with our cast."



"Who's our cast?"



"Oh, didn't I tell you? Bing Crosby, Donald O'Connor, Mitzi Gaynor, and a beautiful ballet dancer named Zizi Jeanmaire. She's married to our choreographer, Roland Petit."



Bing Crosby! A whole generation had grown up listening to his songs.



Bing Crosby had started out with a singing group and when he was too drunk to show up for a broadcast one night, he was banned from the airwaves. That should have been enough to finish any singer's career, but Bing Crosby was not just any singer. He had an inimitable style that captured people's approval. He was given a second chance and he shot to the top. Before his career was over he had sold more than four hundred million records, and had made one hundred eighty-three films.



I went to his dressing room to meet him. Bing was charm itself, friendly and easygoing, with a relaxed, laid-back manner.



"I'm glad we're going to be working together," he told me. He had no idea how glad I was. It was a dream come true.



The shooting of my script, Anything Goes, went smoothly. Roland Petit was a world-famous choreographer and Zizi Jeanmaire did full justice to his work. Donald O'Connor was incredibly talented. It seemed to me that he could do anything, and he and Crosby complemented each other very well.



The production went off without a hitch. When it opened, everyone was happy with the movie, including the critics.



It was not until years later that Bing Crosby's dark side was revealed. His first wife, Dixie, who was dying of ovarian cancer, told friends that Bing neglected her. After she passed away, Bing became a single dad, and a strict disciplinarian. Two of his sons, Lindsay and Dennis, committed suicide.



While I was working on Anything Goes, Jorja was at Twentieth-Century-Fox, co-starring with William Holden and Jennifer Jones in Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing. Shortly after Jorja started the picture, she said to me, "I have some news for you."



"About the picture?"



"No, it's about us. I'm pregnant."



The two most exciting words in the English language.



I grinned like an idiot, hugged her, and then quickly backed away. I didn't want to hurt our baby.



"What are you going to do about the movie?" I asked. Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing was in the middle of production.



"I told them this morning. They said they could shoot it so that they won't have to replace me."



I was ecstatic. I had a wonderful sense of well-being.



As Jorja's due date approached, she fixed up a nursery at the house. As it turned out, Jorja was a brilliant decorator - a talent that would come in handy later on, when we kept moving between Hollywood and New York. She also hired a lovely African-American maid named Laura Thomas, who was destined to become a big part of our lives.



One morning, after seeing the rushes of Anything Goes, Don Hartman asked, "How would you like to write another picture for Dean and Jerry?"



"Sounds great, Don." I had enjoyed working with them.



"We just bought a western for them, called Pardners. I think you'll like it."



I hesitated a moment. "If you don't mind, I'd like to bring someone in to work with me."



He was surprised. "Who?"



"Jerry Davis." Jerry had not worked in a while and this was a chance to help him.



"I know Jerry. If you want to bring him in, that's fine."



"Thank you."



Jerry was delighted with the news, and I was happy to have him around. He was always upbeat and amusing. He was very attractive to women, and when he broke up with someone, they always remained friends.



One time, an ex-girlfriend named Diane called Jerry to tell him she was getting married. Jerry, who was very protective, said, "Tell me about him."



"Well, he's a writer. He lives in New York."



"Diane, successful writers don't live in New York. All the action is in Hollywood. He has to be a loser. What's his name?"



"Neil Simon."



Jerry and I began work on the screenplay and everything went well. What no one knew was that this was going to be one of Lewis and Martin's final pictures as a team. There were many reasons given for their breakup, but the truth was that their personalities were too disparate.



Both men were besieged with invitations for them to host charity events all over the country, and Lewis, who was very gregarious, always said yes. When he told Dean they were going to do it, Dean was upset. He preferred playing golf. Finally their different temperaments led to a permanent break, but first they agreed to do Pardners.



Pardners was a western comedy, and Dean and Jerry were ideal for it. Paul Jones, one of the nicest men in the business, produced the picture.



The reviews were excellent and the picture was a box office hit.



On October 14, 1955, our daughter, Mary Rowane Sheldon, came into the world. Because of me, Jorja almost did not get to the hospital on time. I inadvertently turned the big event into a situation comedy.



It had started years earlier, when I had called Information and asked for the address of the Beverly Hills Public Library.



"I'm sorry," the operator told me, "we do not give out addresses."



I thought she was joking. "It's not CIA headquarters, it's the public library."



"I'm sorry, we do not give out addresses."



I could not believe it. That was too big a challenge to ignore. I was determined that they were going to give me that address.



I waited a moment, then dialed Information again.



"I'd like the telephone number of the public library in Beverly Hills," I said. "It's on Beverly Drive."



The operator came back on the line. "We don't have a public library on Beverly Drive. There's one on North Crescent Drive."



"That doesn't sound right," I said. "What address on North Crescent Drive?"



"At City Hall, 450 North Crescent Drive."



"Thank you." I had been given the information I needed.



From that time on, whenever I wanted the address of a place, I would always use that technique and outwit the telephone company's stupid rule.



On the night of October 14, my brilliant ploy backfired. I heard Jorja cry out, and I rushed into the bedroom.



"It's happening," she said. "Hurry!"



Her bag was packed and waiting at the door. I had made arrangements to take her to St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica. The problem was that I was not sure what street it was on. I called Information.



"I would like the telephone number of St. John's Hospital, on Main Street." I had chosen a street at random, so that she would give me the correct street.



The operator returned a moment later, with the telephone number.



"And it's on Main Street?"



"Yes," she said.



I had happened to guess right. I put Jorja in the car and started racing into Santa Monica, where the hospital was. She was groaning in pain.



"We'll be there in a couple of minutes," I assured her. "Hang on."



I reached Main Street and turned on to it. I went up and down the street. There was no St. John's Hospital. I began to panic. It was late at night and the streets were deserted. The gas stations were closed. I had no idea where I was going. I started racing up and down every street until I finally stumbled onto the hospital - at Twenty-second and Santa Monica Boulevard, over twenty blocks away from Main Street.



Two hours later, Mary was born.



We had a healthy, beautiful baby. It was an incredible joy. Shortly after Mary was born, Jorja and I asked Groucho if he would be her godfather. When he agreed, we were delighted. We could not think of anyone more perfect.



When we brought Mary home from the hospital three days later, Laura, our maid, took her from Jorja's arms.



"I'll take care of her," she said.



From that point on, everyone took care of the baby. Mary would cry in the middle of the night and Jorja would rush into the room, only to find me, sitting in a chair, holding Mary. Or I would hear the baby cry and I would hurry into her room to find Jorja sitting there, rocking her. We all raced to pick her up at the first sign of her crying, day or night. The minute we picked Mary up, she would stop crying.



Finally, I said to Jorja, "Honey, I think we're spoiling her. We're giving her too much love. We should cut out half of it."



Jorja looked at me and said, "All right. You cut out your half."



That was the end of that discussion.