The Other Side of Midnight
“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.
CHAPTER 28
One day a fire broke out in a canyon near our home. If the fire spread out of the canyon, dozens of houses would have been destroyed.
A fire marshal appeared at our door. “The fire is moving pretty fast. Start to evacuate.”
Jorja hurriedly gathered the things she needed. I took Mary, who was five years old at the time, by the hand and whisked her out to the car. I had to quickly decide what I was going to take with me. In the den I had a collection of awards, a shelf full of first-edition books, research papers, sport clothes, and my favorite golf clubs. But there was something more important to take.
Rushing back inside, I grabbed a handful of pens and half a dozen yellow pads I could have replaced at any dime store, because somewhere deep inside me I thought we might have to spend a few weeks in a hotel, and I instinctively knew I could not let my writing be interrupted. That was all I took from the house.
“I’m ready.”
Fortunately, the fire department was able to control the fire and our house was untouched.
It was a familiar voice on the phone. “The critics are crazy. I read the script of Roman Candle and I loved it.” It was Don Hartman.
“Thanks, Don. I appreciate it.” Send no flowers.
“I have a project I’d like you to write. It’s called All in a Night’s Work. Dean Martin and Shirley MacLaine are going to star in it. Hal Wallis is producing it. We have a screenplay that’s pretty good, but it has to be rewritten for our stars.”
“I enjoy working with Dean.”
“Fine. How soon can you start?”
“I’m afraid I can’t start right now, Don. I’ll need about fifteen minutes.”
He laughed. “We’ll call your agent.”
It was good to be back at Paramount. It had given me so many wonderful memories. There were still a lot of familiar faces around—producers, directors, writers, secretaries. I felt that I had come home again.
I had an appointment with Hal Wallis. I had met him a few times socially, but I had never worked with him. He had produced a string of prestigious movies, among them Little Caesar, The Rainmaker, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, and The Rose Tattoo. Hal was a short, compactly built man with a grave manner. Now in his seventies, he was more active than he had ever been.