The Other Side of Midnight

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.