The Other Side of Midnight

“There is no writers’ table.”

“Well,” I said, “then we’ll have to start one.”

She looked at me a moment. “Mr. Sheldon, I’m afraid you’d be very lonely. You’re the only writer on the lot.”

From a hundred fifty writers to, “You’re the only writer on the lot.” That’s how much Hollywood had changed in the last ten years.

I spent the next few days working on an outline to adapt the story of Jumbo for the screen. On Friday, Charles Walters and I flew back to New York, to see Richard Burton in Camelot.

Camelot was a huge production also starring Julie Andrews and Robert Goulet. Moss Hart had directed it. Burton was brilliant in it.

The studio had arranged for Charles Walters and me to have supper with Burton after the show. We were waiting for him when he arrived at Sardi’s. Richard Burton was larger than life—open and gregarious, filled with a hearty Welsh charm. He was well-read, intelligent, and had an eclectic mind. Burton was not a major star, but he was about to become one.

Since I had not had time to write down my story outline, I said, “I have nothing on paper yet, but I would like to tell you the story.”

He smiled. “I love stories. Go ahead.”

Jumbo was a romantic love story set against the background of a rivalry between two circuses. When I had finished telling Richard Burton the story, he was enthusiastic.

“I love it,” he said, “and I’m looking forward to working with Doris Day. Call my agent and tell him to make the deal.”

Chuck and I looked at each other. We had gotten our man. Everything was set.

The following morning, we returned to Hollywood. Joe Pasternak told Benny Thau to close the deal for Burton. Thau called Hugh French, Burton’s Hollywood agent, and set up a meeting.

When they had exchanged greetings, Hugh French said, “Richard called me. He likes the project a lot. He’s eager to do it.”

“Good. We’ll draw up the contracts.”

“For how much?” Hugh French asked.

“Two hundred thousand dollars. That was the deal on his last picture.”

The agent said, “We want two-fifty, Benny.”

Thau, who was a tough negotiator, was indignant. “Why should we give him a raise? He’s not that important. This part is a break for him.”

“Benny, I have to tell you—he has an offer to do another movie. They’re willing to pay him the two-fifty.”

Thau said, stubbornly, “Fine. Let them pay him. We’ll get someone else.”

And so it was that instead of starring in Jumbo, Richard Burton signed to do Cleopatra, met and fell in love with Elizabeth Taylor, and together they created an exciting new chapter in Hollywood romantic gossip. My theory is that if Thau had paid the extra fifty thousand dollars, Richard Burton would have done Jumbo and married Martha Raye.

We signed Stephen Boyd for the male lead and the picture was ready to roll. The cast was brilliant. Doris Day was perfect for the part of Kitty Wonder. Stephen Boyd was excellent and Martha Raye was a delight. But my favorite was Jimmy Durante.

Durante had started as a piano player. He had opened a nightclub and formed an act with two other performers, Jackson and Clayton. An insight into Durante was that when he decided to go solo, he kept his former partners on his payroll. He loved to tell stories about the past and I never heard him say an unkind word about anyone.

My screenplay was approved, and production began. Everything went smoothly during the shooting. When the picture was released, Jumbo was nominated for the Writers Guild Award as the best-written American Musical of the Year.

My agent, Sam Weisbord, called me.

“Sidney, we just sold Patty Duke to ABC.”

I certainly knew that name. At the age of twelve, Patty Duke had gotten the role of Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker, had taken Broadway by storm, and when the movie was made, had received an Oscar.

Sam continued. “We already have a time slot. Wednesday nights at eight. We’re calling the program The Patty Duke Show. Everything is all set. But we have a problem.”

“I don’t understand. If everything is all set, what’s your problem?”

“We don’t have a show.”

They had sold it on Patty Duke’s name alone.

“We want you to create a show.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” I said, “the answer is no.”

In the early sixties, people who worked in motion pictures looked down on those who labored in television. When television was in its infancy, the networks had gone to the studios. “We have a great new form of distribution,” they said, “but we don’t know how to create entertainment. Why don’t we become partners?”

The answer was simple. The studios had their own means of distribution. They were called theaters, and most of the studios owned their own chains. They were not about to get involved with an upstart technology that they considered a passing fad. The studios were so anti-television that they would not even permit their stars to be televised going to a movie premiere.

I had been conditioned by that attitude, and I remembered my experience with Desi, so it was natural for me to say, “Sorry, Sammy. I don’t do television.”

There was a pause. “All right. I understand. But as a courtesy, would you have lunch with Patty?”

I saw no harm in that. As a matter of fact, I was curious to meet her.

We arranged to have lunch at the Brown Derby. Patty was accompanied by four agents from the William Morris office. She was then sixteen years old, smaller than I had expected, and very vulnerable. She sat next to me in our booth.