The Other Side of Me
Page 27I did not need a car to take me home. I was walking on air. Jorja was waiting for me at the door when I got home. She looked at my face and said, "Good news?"
"Great news. Desi Arnaz is going to produce Adventures of a Model."
She hugged me. "That's wonderful."
"Do you know what it means to get a successful show on television? It could go on for years."
"When will you know?"
"In the next day or two."
Two days later I got a call from Desi. "We're in," he said. "CBS has given us their last time slot."
"We're going out to celebrate tonight," I told Jorja.
Laura was listening, her face beaming. "You two have a good time," she said, and she handed me twenty dollars. "It's on me."
"I can't. You've already been - "
"Yes, you can."
I hugged her. "Thank you."
"I knew you could do it all the time."
Jorja and I went to an Italian restaurant and had a wonderful dinner.
"I can't believe it," I said. "We're on CBS. I'm going to produce the show and write the scripts."
On the way home, Jorja said, "I'm so proud of you, honey. I know what you've been through and how hard it's been, but that's all over now."
Desi called me the next morning. "Can you come to the office?"
I grinned. "Certainly." I was there thirty minutes later.
"Sit down," Desi said.
"Right. When do we start?"
He studied me a moment. "Sidney, CBS had one opening left and we got it. They canceled The Dick Van Dyke Show and put us in that time period. Danny Thomas, who owns The Dick Van Dyke Show and a few other shows on CBS, put pressure on them and insisted they give The Dick Van Dyke Show another year. The network finally agreed. They put them back in the time slot. We're out."
I sat there, not moving, unable to speak.
"I'm sorry," Desi said. "Maybe next season."
I was faced with the same choice: Give up or try again. I was damned if I was going to give up.
I needed another project, and I sat down to create one. I sat in my study for a week, discarding idea after idea. Finally, I thought of one that might work. There had been no shows on Broadway about Gypsies. I had a title, King of New York. It would be about a Gypsy family with a beautiful daughter falling in love with a non-Gypsy and the situations that that could lead to.
I knew nothing about Gypsies and I had to do research. Where could I find out about them? I called the police station and asked to speak to a detective.
"What can I do for you?"
"I would like to interview some Gypsies. Do you know where I can find some?"
He laughed. "Yeah, usually we have them locked up in the station. At the moment they're all out. I can give you the name of the man who calls himself 'the King.'"
"Perfect."
His name was Adams and the detective told me where to get in touch with him. I called Adams and told him who I was, and invited him over to the apartment. He was a tall, burly man, with black hair and a deep, gravelly voice.
"I'd like to talk to you about Gypsy customs," I said. "I want to know all about the way you live."
He sat there, silently.
"I'll pay you for it," I said. "If you talk to me and tell me everything I need to know, I'll pay you - " I hesitated " - a hundred dollars."
His face lit up. "Fine. You can give me the money now, and - "
And I knew I would never see him again. "No. I want you to come here once a week and we'll talk and I'll give you some money each time you come for an hour."
He shrugged. "Okay."
"Now, start talking."
He talked and I made notes. I wanted to know the Gypsy customs, how they lived, dressed, talked, and thought. At the end of three weeks, I knew enough about Gypsies to start writing the play. When I finished it, I showed it to Jorja.
"It's lovely," she said. "Who are you going to take it to?"
I had already decided that. "Gower Champion." He had just directed a Broadway hit called Bye Bye Birdie.
I went to see Gower. He had been a musical star at MGM, had gone on to Broadway as a director, and had become a big success.
"I have a play I'd like you to read," I told him.
"Fine. I'm leaving for New York tonight. I'll take it with me, and read it on the plane."
I had foolishly hoped that he would do what Desi Arnaz did and read it immediately. "Thank you."
"He's going to read it. The problem is that I heard he has a lot of other projects in the works. Even if he's interested, it may be a long time before he does this."
Gower Champion called the next morning. "Sidney, I think it's great," he said. "It's going to make a wonderful musical. There's been nothing like it on Broadway. I'm going to call Charles Strouse and Lee Adams, who wrote the score for Bye Bye Birdie, and bring them on board."
For some reason, I felt no excitement. I had had too many disappointments. I managed to sound enthusiastic. "That's great, Gower."
I hung up the phone and thought of all the dreams that had never come true.
I waited to hear from Gower, and five days later he called. He sounded angry.
"Is everything all right?" I asked.
"No. I told Strouse and Adams that I wanted them to do the music for this show and they're asking for a bigger percentage. They're ungrateful bastards. I told them I wouldn't give it to them."
"So who do we - ?"
"I'm not going to do the show."
A year later, someone else opened a show on Broadway called Bajour. It was about Gypsies living in New York.
At a time when I should have been depressed, I felt elated. I remembered what Dr. Marmer had said about manic depression. It's a brain deviation that involves episodes of serious mania and depression, where moods swing from euphoria to despair . . . a major contributing factor in thirty thousand suicides a year. I was euphoric. I felt that something wonderful was going to happen.
It came in the form of a phone call.
"Sidney Sheldon, please."
"Speaking."
"This is Robert Fryer." A very successful Broadway producer.
"Yes, Mr. Fryer?"
"Dorothy and Herbert Fields asked me to phone you. They're writing a musical for me called Redhead, and they would like to know whether you would be interested in working on it with them. Are you interested?"
Was I interested in working with Dorothy and Herbert Fields again? Was I! I tried to sound cool. "Yes, I would be very interested."
"That's wonderful. How soon can you come to New York? We want to get started as quickly as possible."
Two weeks later, Jorja, Mary, and I were moving into a rental apartment in Manhattan. Our one disappointment was that Laura was unable to travel with us. I had paid her all the salary I owed her, plus a large bonus. It was an emotional farewell.
"I can't leave my family, Mr. Sheldon. I'll miss you and pray for you."
That was Laura.
Robert Fryer was in his middle forties, a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a passion for the theater. We met in his office on Forty-fifth Street.
"Redhead is going to be a really great show," he said enthusiastically. "I'm glad you're going to work with us."
"So am I. Tell me about the show."
"Dorothy is writing the lyrics. The music is being written by Albert Hague. You and Herbert will write the book. The play takes place in turn-of-the-century London. Our lead is a young woman who makes figures that are exhibited in the chamber of horrors in a wax museum. A serial killer is loose, and he leaves no clues. When he murders his latest victim, our heroine sees him and makes a wax model of him. He sets out to murder her. It's a mixture of mystery, suspense, and songs and dances."
"That sounds exciting."
We met Dorothy at her home.
After the greetings were over, Dorothy said, "Let's go to work."
Dorothy and Herbert had conceived a dream of a plot. I had not seen them since Annie Get Your Gun and it was a joy to be working with them again.
The Fieldses introduced me to Albert Hague, the composer, who had done half a dozen Broadway shows. He was a brilliant musician.
Hague later gained fame as Mr. Benjamin Shorofsky in the television series Fame.
Because the basic idea the Fieldses had was so exciting, the writing of the book went smoothly. Herbert and Dorothy were professionals who worked business hours. We worked from nine in the morning until six P.M. and then everybody went home. I thought of the frantic days when Ben Roberts and I were working on several shows at once, until the wee hours of the morning.
Jorja and I got a nurse for Mary, and when I was not working, we explored New York. We went to the theater and the museums and enjoyed some of the restaurants. The first one I took Jorja to was Sardi's, and Vincent Sardi was still there, as warm as ever. We had a wonderful meal, with a complimentary bottle of champagne.
Herbert and I finished the first draft of the libretto as Dorothy and Albert were finishing the score.
When we were ready, we gathered in Robert Fryer's office and ran through the book and score.
"Great," Fryer said. "It's everything I hoped it would be. Now, who are we going to cast in it? Who is going to play the lead?"
We needed a leading lady who was attractive, sympathetic, and could sing and play comedy. Not an easy combination to find. We went through a list of actresses and finally came across a name that we all liked: Bea Lillie. She was an English stage star who played comedy, and sang and danced.
"She would be perfect. I'm going to send her the book and the score," Fryer said, "and pray."
Five days later, we were meeting again in Fryer's office. He was grinning. "Bea Lillie loves it. She's going to play it."
"That's great."
"Now we need a choreographer and we're in business."
It was not to be. Bea Lillie wanted her boyfriend to direct the show.
We went through the list of available actresses again.
The room lit up.
"Why didn't we think of her before? She's perfect. She's a beautiful, talented musical star - and she's a redhead. I'll get the play to her this afternoon."
This time there was only a two-day wait.
"She'll do it," Robert Fryer said. He sighed. "But there's a catch."
We all looked at him. "Oh?"
"She wants her boyfriend to direct it."
"Who's her boyfriend?"
"Bob Fosse."
Bob Fosse was a brilliant choreographer. He had just choreographed two hit shows, The Pajama Game and Damn Yankees.
"Has he ever directed anything?" I asked.
"No, but he's damn talented. If you all agree, I'm willing to take a chance on him."
I said, "I'd hate to lose Gwen Verdon."
Dorothy said, "Let's not lose her." She looked at Robert Fryer. "Let's talk to Bob Fosse."
Bob Fosse was in his early thirties, a small, intense man who had been a dancer and actor in several Hollywood films. He had gone on to be a choreographer and had his own exciting style. His trademark, when he danced, was wearing a hat and gloves. He wore hats to cover the fact that he had started going bald. It was said that he wore gloves because he did not like his hands.
We met in a rehearsal room off Broadway. Bob Fosse knew exactly what he wanted to do with the show. He was filled with exciting ideas and by the time the meeting was over, we were delighted to have him. It was a two-in-one deal. He would choreograph and direct.
We rounded out the cast with Richard Kiley and Leonard Stone, and rehearsals began.
Along with the problems.
Bob Fosse, like all good choreographers, was dictatorial. He had his own vision of the show. The libretto was written, the sets were being built, costumes were ordered, and Fosse was dissatisfied with everything. He was opinionated and stubborn and he was turning all of us into nervous wrecks. Why we stood for it was simple: He was a genius. His choreography was brilliant enough to light up the show. But when Fosse tried to rewrite the book, I put my foot down. Herbert agreed with me. We decided to let him bring in another writer, David Shaw.
The rehearsals looked wonderful. Gwen was brilliant. The dances were spectacular and the book worked like a dream. I held my breath, waiting to see what was going to go wrong.
Natalie and Marty came to New York for the opening, and Richard flew in with his wife, Joan. They sat in the audience with Jorja and me. This time none of them was disappointed.
We opened at the 46th Street Theatre, in New York, on February 5, 1959, and the critics were unanimous in their praise. They raved about Gwen, loved the songs and dances, and enjoyed the book.
"Best musical comedy of the season . . ." Watts, New York Post
"The musical triumph of the year, perhaps several years . . ." Aston, New York Telegram and Sun
"The best musical of the season to date! . . ." McClain, New York Journal-American
"A tip-top musical! . . ." Chapman, New York News
"Red-hot hit! . . ." Winchell
"Firecracker of a musical . . ." Kerr, New York Herald Tribune
Redhead garnered seven Tony nominations that year and five wins. Needless to say, we were thrilled.
Three months later, Gwen Verdon and Bob Fosse were married.
The elevator was at the top again, and I decided it was time to move back to Hollywood. I was not going to wait around for a studio to hire me. I was going to write a play that the studios would want to buy.
It is very easy to have a hit play on Broadway. I had always been interested in extrasensory perception. The movies and plays that had been done about it were always very serious. I decided it would be fun to write a romantic comedy about a beautiful young psychic. I wrote the play and called it Roman Candle. My agent sent it to various studios and Broadway producers and the excitement it generated stunned me. Four Broadway producers made offers for it.
Moss Hart, who was one of the top directors on Broadway, wanted to direct it. Moss Hart had just directed the Broadway smash musical My Fair Lady. He wanted the producer he worked with, Herman Levin, to produce Roman Candle. Sam Spiegel also wanted to produce it.
My agent was Audrey Wood. Audrey was a small, dynamic woman and one of the preeminent theatrical agents on Broadway. She worked with her husband, Bill Liebling, and they represented some of the top playwrights, including Tennessee Williams and William Inge.
Audrey said, "This is going to be a big play. Sam Spiegel called again. He's ready to make a deal. He's a friend of Moss Hart and Moss will direct it for him."
I was thrilled. There was no one better.
Audrey called me again. "I have some more news for you," she said. "William Wyler read your play and wants to direct the movie."
William Wyler was a top director in Hollywood. Among other classics, he had directed Mrs. Miniver, Ben-Hur, The Best Years of Our Lives, and Roman Holiday. He was with the Mirisch Company, and they were going to produce the picture. They also wanted to invest in the Broadway play. I had a choice to make: Sam Spiegel and Moss Hart, or William Wyler and the Mirisch Company?
"Since Moss wants to do the play," I told Audrey, "why don't we have Sam Spiegel produce the play and Moss will direct it and the movie will be done by William Wyler and the Mirisch Company."
She shook her head. "I doubt if Sam will produce the play if he can't have the picture rights."
"Try him," I urged.
The following day she said, "I was right. Spiegel wants the picture rights, too. But I have a producer for you who will be great for this play. She just produced a big hit, Candide. Her name is Ethel Linder Reiner."
I met Ethel Linder Reiner. She was in her fifties, gray-haired, and very aggressive. "I love your play," she said. "We're going to have a big hit."
I had heard that Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe had written a Broadway show about a psychic that was ready to be produced. They had put it on hold because of Roman Candle. In movies or television, a success quickly breeds imitators, but on Broadway originality is the key. Lerner and Loewe did not want to put on a show about a psychic when it had just been done by someone else. They were waiting to see how Roman Candle turned out.
I had met Alan when we were at MGM together and I liked him. He and Frederick Loewe were enormously gifted and I felt sorry that they had wasted their time and talent on a show that would never be put on.
I said to Audrey, "Will you call Moss and tell him we're moving ahead?"
"Sure," she said. "The sooner we get this play on, the better."
The following day I had a meeting with Audrey Wood and Ethel Linder Reiner.
"I got a telegram from Moss," Audrey said. She read it aloud.
"Dear Audrey, I received your ultimatum, but I am in the middle of writing an autobiography called Act One, and it will be another six months before I am finished and able to direct Sidney's play."
She looked up at me. "We'll get another director."
That was the time for me to speak up. There is no Broadway director better than Moss Hart. There is no hurry to get the play on. Let's wait for him. But I hated confrontations. Ever since I was a small boy, listening to the bitter fights between Natalie and Otto, I had dreaded arguments. So, I nodded. "Whatever you say."
That was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. It turned out that Ethel Linder Reiner was a dilettante. She did not understand Broadway or Hollywood. When I introduced her to William Wyler, who was going to direct the movie, she said, "I loved Sunset Boulevard," a classic picture that of course was directed by Billy Wilder.
We started casting the play. She chose Inger Stevens, a beautiful young actress who had done some television series, and Robert Sterling and Julia Meade. The director was David Pressman, who had had very little directing experience. As the playwright, I had the right to approve the director and the casting, but I did not want to make waves. Inger Stevens and Robert Sterling flew to New York, and the rehearsals began.
William Wyler called. "Sidney, we have a problem."
I took a deep breath. "What happened?"
"Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine read your play. They both want to do the picture."
"Willie - may problems like that continue!"
The play opens with a beautiful young psychic coming to New York because she had seen the picture of the man she knew she would marry, on the cover of Time magazine. He was a scientist about to get married to a senator's daughter. The complications started from then on. The Army was not thrilled with one of their scientists being involved with a woman who claimed to be a psychic.
The rehearsals went well. The play opened out of town and the reviews could have been written by Natalie.
In Philadelphia: "Sidney Sheldon's happy spoof is a source of sheer delight. Hilarious . . ."
New Haven: "Sidney Sheldon's Roman Candle was responsible for a lot of laughter at the Shubert Theatre last night . . ."
The Journal Evening, Wilmington, Delaware: "Roman Candle, the most delightful comedy involving the armed forces we've seen since No Time for Sergeants . . ."
John Chapman: "Roman Candle is a jolly, joke-filled farce about our armed services and a beautiful psychic."
In every theater we played, the walls resounded with the laughter of audiences.
Audrey said, "This play is going to run forever."
I tried to control my enthusiasm. In every town we played, there were rave reviews. I kept working on the play, refining it, sharpening it. The scenes all worked beautifully. We were getting ready to go to New York. Everyone was brimming with optimism, and with good reason. We had a play that the audience loved.
It was time to open in Manhattan. We had gotten the Cort Theatre, a perfect venue for the play. The glowing out-of-town reviews had preceded us. The entertainment pages of the New York newspapers were filled with photographs of our cast and articles already proclaiming us a huge hit. Telegrams of congratulations were pouring in from family, my friends on Broadway, and in Hollywood. We were all filled with enormous excitement. We started making bets.
"I'll bet it runs for two years," the producer said.
Audrey Wood spoke up. "With road shows, it could run for three years, maybe even four."
They turned to me. I had had too many bitter lessons. "I quit betting on the theater a long time ago," I said.
Opening night went well and the audience was appreciative. Late that night we read the early reviews.
New York Times: "Less spirited than a six-day bicycle race."
Variety: "The characters are astonishingly colorless."
New York Herald Tribune: "Don't let me give you the impression that the show is a dud. It isn't. Roman Candle is a mild, modest, stubborn, little show."
Q Magazine: "The actors make the Cort stage more alive and exciting than the script allows."
New York Daily News: "The plot of Roman Candle keeps moving, most but not quite all the time."
Some pundit said that a critic is someone who waits until a show in trouble opens, then goes in and shoots the wounded.
Roman Candle closed after five performances.
Soon after our closing, Lerner and Loewe went into production with their show about a psychic. It was called On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.
It was a big hit.
My agent telephoned me from Hollywood. "I'm sorry about the play."
"So am I."
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."
"I thought that was the bad news."
"There's more. William Wyler has decided not to direct the movie."
That was the final blow.
It is very easy to almost have a hit play on Broadway.