Myths and rumors surround Oscar. If you win him, you'll never want again. If you win him, you'll never work again.
A week after I received my Oscar, Sam Weisbord stopped by my office.
"Congratulations, again. Where are you going to keep it?"
"I want to be modest about it. What would you think about the roof of my house with half a dozen spotlights on it?"
He laughed. "Spectacular!"
"I have to tell you, Sammy, winning it was a complete shock to me."
"I know," he said, dryly. "I heard your speech." He sat down and added casually, "By the way, I've just come from Benny Thau's office." Thau was Metro's deal-maker. "You have a seven-year contract here. They gave us everything we asked for."
I couldn't believe it. "That's wonderful." The power of the Oscar.
"One of the things they caved in on was your request to take three months a year off anytime you want to."
"Great." I wanted to be free to do other things.
I had moved into a small carriage house in Westwood. The house consisted of a small bedroom, a small den, a small living room, a small kitchen, and two small bathrooms. There was a garage attached that was bigger than the house. Tony Curtis and the beautiful Janet Leigh, both extremely talented actors, lived in an apartment a few doors away. They had a car, but no place to park it.
At a dinner party one night, Tony said, "We're having a problem parking on the street. I wonder if we could rent your garage."
"You can't rent it," I said, "but you can use it," and from then on their car was parked in my garage.
My house was much too small to give parties in, but I didn't know that, so I gave a lot of parties. I had been lucky enough to find a terrific Filipino cook, who also bartended and cleaned the house. Since I started at MGM, I had met a lot of interesting people. Ira Gershwin came to dinner with his wife, Lee. Kirk Douglas, Sid Caesar, and Steve Allen also came, along with their significant others. It was a long and wonderful guest list. More than once, Jules Stein, head of MCA, the most powerful talent agency in Hollywood, came to dinner with his wife, Doris. We often sat on the floor because there were not enough chairs, but no one seemed to mind.
One of the most interesting men I met was Robert Schiffer, head of makeup at Disney Studios. He was English and had flown with the Royal Air Force during World War II. He owned a yacht and had traveled all over the world.
In 1946, Schiffer was working on a Rita Hayworth movie. Rita was about to start another one for Harry Cohn. Instead, she and Schiffer decided to run away to Mexico. The picture was held up while they had a romantic vacation. Harry Cohn was going crazy because he could not find them.
Every Saturday afternoon, I had a gin game at my house. There were half a dozen regulars. Jerry Davis, a writer-producer, was one of them, along with the director Stanley Donen, Bob Schiffer, and several others. Elizabeth Taylor, then in her early twenties, was going with Stanley, and every Saturday she would come to prepare lunch for us while we played gin.
Elizabeth was petite and sensual, with incredible violet eyes and a hint of the magic that was going to make her a legend. It was hard to believe that this beauty was in my kitchen making sandwiches every Saturday.
Cyd Charisse was under contract to MGM. She was sexy and talented. She had joined the Ballet Russe when she was thirteen, and was a superb dancer. I had taken her out a few times. We had a date for a Saturday night when she called to cancel it.
"Is there a problem?" I asked.
Cyd was evasive. "I'll tell you more about it Monday."
She did not have to tell me. It was in all the headlines. Over the weekend she had married the popular singer Tony Martin.
Cyd called me. "I guess you heard the news."
"I did. I hope you and Tony will be very happy."
I tried to forget Cyd by burying myself in my work. I was ready for another assignment.
Kenneth McKenna, head of the MGM story department, summoned me to his office. McKenna was in his mid-fifties, a ramrod-straight, gray-haired martinet who ran his department like a fief.
No greeting. "I have an assignment for you. Show Boat."
It was a fantastic assignment. Show Boat was one of the great musicals. It had a brilliant score and a wonderful libretto. I loved it. But I had a problem.
"Kenneth," I said, "I've just done two adaptations. I'd like to work on some original material."
He got up from his chair. "You'll work on whatever I tell you to work on. You're under contract to this studio. You'll scrub floors if I tell you to."
I never did write Show Boat. I was much too busy scrubbing floors for the next few weeks.
I had planned a trip to Europe during my three months off that year, and I was very excited about it. I had booked passage on the Liberte, a French ship that I heard was fantastic.
I called Natalie and Marty, and Richard and Joan, to say goodbye, then flew to New York to board the ship.
Among the passengers was Charles MacArthur, whom I had met before. He was a brilliant playwright who, with Ben Hecht, had written The Front Page, Jumbo, and Twentieth Century. With him was his wife, America's preeminent actress, Helen Hayes.
When Charles had first seen her at a party, he was instantly smitten. He had picked up a bowl of peanuts, offered them to her, and said, "I wish these were diamonds."
They were married shortly thereafter. The following year, on Helen's birthday, Charles handed her a small bowl of diamonds and said, "I wish these were peanuts."
Other passengers included: Rosalind Russell and her husband, producer Fred Brisson, and Elsa Maxwell, the famous party giver.
The first day out to sea, Charles came to me and said, "Elsa Maxwell heard about you winning an Oscar. She wants to invite you to her dinner party tonight. I told her that you did not socialize."
"Charlie! I'd love to go to her dinner party."
He smiled. "You have to play hard to get. I'll tell her you're thinking about it."
Later that afternoon, Elsa Maxwell herself came up to me and said, "Mr. Sheldon, I'm giving a small dinner party tonight. I would love to have you join us."
"I'll be there."
Dinner was delightful and the guests seemed to enjoy themselves. At the end of the meal, as I got up to leave, a steward said, "Excuse me, Mr. Sheldon. That will be three dollars for the table."
I shook my head. "I'm a guest of Miss Maxwell."
"Yes, sir. That will be three dollars."
I was furious.
Charlie tried to calm me down.
"I don't mind the idea of it," I said, "it's the money I object to."
Charlie laughed. "Sidney, her skill lies in bringing people together. She never pays for anything."
When I got to London, I checked into the storied Savoy Hotel. Though the war was over, England was still feeling the effects of it. Rationing was in effect and there was a shortage of everything.
When the room service waiter came to see me in the morning, I said, "I'll have grapefruit, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast."
He looked pained. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. None of that is available. You have a choice of mushrooms or kippers."
"Oh." I chose the mushrooms.
The next morning, I ordered the kippers.
When I went to a restaurant that night, there was almost nothing edible on the menu.
The following morning I was surprised by a call from Tony Martin. "You didn't tell us you were in town."
"I've been busy."
"I want you to come to my show tonight."
I had no intention of meeting the man who had married the lady I was very fond of. "I can't - I - "
"I'm leaving a ticket for you at the box office." He added, "Come backstage after the show," and hung up.
I had no interest in seeing his show. I would go backstage, tell him how brilliant he was, and leave.
I went to see his performance that evening anyway and he was amazing. The audience loved him. I went backstage to his dressing room to congratulate him and Cyd was there. I got a big hug, and Cyd introduced me to Tony.
"You're going to have supper with us tonight," Tony said.
I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'll - "
"Let's go."
Tony Martin turned out to be one of the nicest men I had ever met.
Supper was at an exclusive, private club. What I did not know was that the private clubs in London were immune to rationing.
The waiter said, "We have lovely steaks tonight."
We all ordered steaks.
The waiter said to me, "Would you like an egg on your steak, sir?"
And that was the first egg I had since arriving in London.
I spent every night after that with Cyd and Tony, having a marvelous time on their honeymoon.
One night, Tony said to me, "We're leaving for Paris in the morning. Get packed. You're coming with us."
I did not argue.
We flew to Paris, and it was fabulous. Tony hired a limousine to take us to the usual tourist spots - the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, Napoleon's Tomb - and we ate delectable meals.
On Sunday morning, Tony had arranged for a limousine to take us to Longchamps to see the races. Unfortunately we had all gotten food poisoning the night before and we were in terrible shape.
Tony phoned. "Cyd and I feel awful. We're not going to be able to go to the track."
"Neither am I, Tony. I feel - "
"There's a limousine downstairs, waiting for you. Take it."
"Tony - "
"Take it. Put a bet on a horse for us."
I went to Longchamps alone, semiconscious. There was a long line at the betting window. When I finally got to the head of it, the man behind the counter said, "Oui?"
I spoke no French. I shoved some money across the counter and held up one finger, "Number une," and I touched my nose. He said something unintelligible and shoved the money back at me.
I tried again. "Number une." I held up my finger and touched my nose. "On the nose, to win."
He shoved the money back again. The people in line behind me were getting impatient. A man stepped out of the line and came up to me.
"What's the problem?" he asked in English.
"I'm trying to bet this money on number one to win." The man spoke in French to the cashier, then turned to me.
"Number one has been scratched," he said. "Pick another horse."
I chose number two, got a handful of tickets, and stumbled out to watch the race.
Number two won, and Tony and Cyd and I split the money.
That trip was something I never forgot and I resolved to go to Europe every year.
That August, Dore Schary resigned as head of RKO after accepting an offer from Louis B. Mayer to become head of production at MGM. My old boss was now my new boss.
I was assigned to write the screenplay for Nancy Goes to Rio, which was to star Ann Sothern, Jane Powell, Barry Sullivan, Carmen Miranda, and Louis Calhern.
The picture was being produced by Joe Pasternak, a middle-aged Hungarian producer with a heavy accent. Before he came to MGM, he produced small pictures at Universal, a studio on the verge of bankruptcy. A young actress named Deanna Durbin was released from her contract at MGM and went to Universal. Joe Pasternak was assigned by Universal to do a picture with Deanna called Three Smart Girls.
To the studio's amazement, the picture exploded at the box office. Overnight, Deanna Durbin became a major star and Universal was saved. Shortly after that, Joe Pasternak accepted an offer at MGM as a producer.
One day, Dore Schary called a meeting of the producers on the lot.
When they were all seated in his office, Dore said, "We have a problem. I just bought a play called Tea and Sympathy. It's a big Broadway hit, but the censorship office won't let us make it because it involves a homosexual. We have to come up with another angle. I want to hear your suggestions."
There was a thoughtful silence. Then one of the producers said, "Instead of a homosexual, we could make him an alcoholic."
Another producer said, "He could be on drugs."
"He could be a cripple."
A dozen different ideas were floated around the room, none of them satisfactory.
After a silence, Joe Pasternak spoke up. "It's very simple," he said. "You keep the play exactly as it is. He is a homosexual." And then he added, triumphantly, "But in the end, it's all a dream."
That was the end of the meeting.
One of the bonuses of working on Nancy Goes to Rio was meeting Louis Calhern. Calhern had started out in the theater and was a brilliant actor. He had a regal appearance, tall and hawk-nosed, with a stentorian voice. He had been briefly married to three actresses and was on his fourth. He had a wonderful sense of humor and was a delight to be with. He had just starred in The Magnificent Yankee, the story of Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes.
When Louis would come to my house for dinner, as he walked through the front door, he would bellow, "Where the hell is the food?"
I received a telegram from him one day that read: "Understand that my wife has been hoodwinked into making an engagement for you with me on Saturday night, the fourth. I will meet you in the theater after the lights are out. Please do not expect to be seen in public with me. Calhern."
An agent introduced me to a beautiful young Swedish actress whom I'll call Ingrid, who had come to the United States to make a test at Universal. She was enchanting and we began a romance.
A few weeks later on a Sunday morning, while I was asleep, the doorbell began to ring. I looked at the bedside clock. It was four A.M. The ringing became more frantic. I reluctantly got up, put on a robe, went to the door and opened it. A stranger, holding a gun, shoved me aside and came into the room.
My heart began to pound. "If this is a holdup," I said, "take whatever - "
"You son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you."
It was not a holdup.
At moments like that a writer is supposed to think: This is great material. But what I thought was: I'm going to die.
"I don't know you," I said.
"No, but you know my wife," he shouted. "You've been sleeping with her."
I knew he had made a mistake. I never had affairs with married women. "Look," I said, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who your wife is."
"Ingrid." He raised the gun.
"I - " It was no mistake. "Wait a minute! Ingrid never told me she was married."
"The bitch married me so she could get a visa to come to this country."
"Hold it," I said. "This is all news to me. She doesn't wear a wedding ring, and she never mentioned a husband, so there's no way I could have known. Sit down and let's talk about it."
He hesitated a moment and sank into a chair. We were both sweating profusely.
"I'm not like this," he said, "but I - I love her, and she used me."
"I don't blame you for being upset. I think we can both use a drink." I fixed stiff drinks for both of us.
Five minutes later, he was telling me his life story. He was a writer and he had met Ingrid in Europe. He was now unable to get work in Hollywood.
I said, "You need a job? Let me take care of it. I'll talk to Kenneth McKenna, at Metro."
His face lit up. "Would you? I'd sure appreciate it."
Five minutes later, he and his gun were gone.
I turned out the lights, went back to bed breathing hard, and had finally fallen asleep when I heard a banging at the front door.
He's back, I thought. He's changed his mind. He's decided to kill me.
I got out of bed, went to the door and opened it. Ingrid was standing there. She had been beaten up badly. Her face was bruised, she had two black eyes, and her lip was bleeding. I pulled her inside the house.
She could hardly talk. "I have to tell you - "
"You don't have to tell me. Your husband was here. Get in bed. I'm going to call a doctor."
I managed to wake up my doctor, and an hour later he was at the house, tending to Ingrid. She had a broken rib and deep bruises all over her body.
When the doctor left, Ingrid said, "I don't know what to do. I have a screen test at Universal this morning."
I shook my head. "Not anymore. You can't go in looking like that. I'll call and cancel the test." And I did.
Ingrid left that evening and disappeared.
In 1948, Cy Feuer and Ernie Martin, a new producing team, came to the studio to see me.
"We're doing a Broadway play called Where's Charley? It's based on the classic, Charley's Aunt. We want you to write it. We've cleared your name with the Brandon Thomas Estate. Frank Loesser is going to write the score. Ray Bolger will star."
Frank Loesser had written several popular songs, but he had never done a Broadway show. I knew the plot of Charley's Aunt and I liked it. I thought it could be a big hit.
"I'd like to meet with Frank."
"We'll set it up."
Frank Loesser was a dynamo. He was in his late thirties, talented and ambitious. He had written the wartime hit "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition," and several other popular movie songs, including "The Moon of Manakoora," "On a Slow Boat to China," "The Boys in the Back Room," and "Kiss the Boys Goodbye."
"I have some great ideas," Frank said. "We can make this a big hit."
"I think so, too."
"I'll work on the libretto with you."
"That will be wonderful, Frank," I said, "and I'll work on the score with you."
He grinned. "Never mind."
I went to see Dore Schary. "I'm going to take my three months off," I said, "to do a Broadway show."
"What show?"
"Where's Charley? It's a remake of Charley's Aunt."
Dore shook his head. "Broadway's risky."
I laughed. "I know. I've been there, Dore."
"I don't think you should do it."
"Well, I've already committed and - "
"I'll make a deal with you. How would you like to write the screenplay of Annie Get Your Gun?"
"What?"
"If you forget about that play, I'll assign you to write Annie."
Annie Get Your Gun was the biggest hit on Broadway. It had been playing for three years and had four road companies out.
In 1945, Herbert and Dorothy Fields had gone to Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein and suggested they do a show about Annie Oakley. Dorothy Fields would write the lyrics and Jerome Kern agreed to do the score.
Three days after Kern arrived in New York, he suffered a stroke, and a few days later he died. Rodgers and Hammerstein decided Irving Berlin should write the score. The show contained half a dozen hits, including the standard, "There's No Business Like Show Business." MGM had paid six hundred thousand dollars for the rights to Annie Get Your Gun, the highest price up to then for a musical.
"What do you say?" Dore asked.
I thought about it. I was certain that Where's Charley? was going to be a hit, but I was excited about the chance to work with Irving Berlin again. It was impossible to say no to Dore's offer.
"I'll do it," I said.
That afternoon, I called Feuer and Martin and Frank Loesser, and told them of my decision.
"I know you're going to have a big hit," I said.
And I was right.