I was working with Ruth Brooks Flippen, one of the top writers at the studio. The producer was Armand Deutsch, whom Dore had brought in from the east. Armand, or Ardie, as he was called, had no experience making movies, but Dore was very impressed with his intellect.
When I met Ardie, I liked him immediately. Instead of having the restrained attitude of many producers, Ardie was filled with enthusiasm.
I sat down to begin writing the screenplay. I decided to complicate the life of the Pug Wells character, not with one man, but with three. That gave me my title, Three Guys Named Mike.
When I showed Ardie the beginning of my screenplay, he was literally jumping up and down with excitement. The result was that I couldn’t wait to show him more. He was wonderful to work with. When I finished the screenplay, he said, “This is a great part for Jane Wyman.”
“And the men?”
“Van Johnson, Howard Keel, and Barry Sullivan. That’s my dream cast.”
Ardie got his dream cast. We started shooting in the spring of 1950, and the picture went well.
For reasons which now escape me, I decided I wanted to act in the movie. I spoke to Ardie about it.
“Fine,” he said. “What part do you want to play?”
“I haven’t written it yet,” I told him.
I knew how to write a part that could not be cut out of a movie. The secret was to play a character who was with the star when he or she was introduced. Since they could not cut out the entrance of the star, they could not cut out the character. I wrote myself a brief part as a gardener in the scene introducing Barry Sullivan.
The next day, at the dailies, when I saw my performance, I would have given any amount of money not to have done it. I was dreadful.
I was assigned to Just This Once, a lovely original idea by Max Trell. It was about a spendthrift who was living a high life running through his inheritance. The executor of his estate was so upset that he hired a conservator to control the man’s spending. The conservator happened to be a beautiful young woman.
When I finished this script, I thought it would be perfect for Cary Grant. The studio sent the script to Cary, and he turned it down.
Peter Lawford was cast, along with Janet Leigh and Lewis Stone, who had played Judge Hardy in the famous Andy Hardy series.
One year later, when the picture was released, Cary called me. “Sidney, I just want to tell you that you were right. I should have played that part.”
To this day, Just This Once remains one of my favorite movies.
In February of 1952, Kenneth McKenna sent for me.
“We just bought a Broadway play, Remains to Be Seen.”
I had read the reviews. It was a big Broadway hit written by the talented team of Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse. It was about a female band singer in New York City who moves into an apartment house where the murder of her wealthy uncle took place. When the girl grows suspicious of the murderer, he decides to kill her.
“I’m assigning you to it,” McKenna said.
I nodded. “Fine, Kenneth.”
He was definitely not a Ken.
“We’ll fly you to New York to see the show and meet Leland Hayward, the producer.”
Leland Hayward. My mind was spinning. I could still visualize the client list of the Leland Hayward Agency when I was there. Ben Hecht, Charles MacArthur, Nunnally Johnson.
Hayward would go on to produce some prestigious movies, The Old Man and the Sea, The Spirit of St. Louis, and Mister Roberts.
I flew to New York the following day. On the plane, I read the stage play of Remains to Be Seen and it was delightful.
The day after I arrived, I had lunch with Leland Hayward at the Plaza Hotel. He had the reputation of being a bon vivant. He had been married to Pamela Churchill, Margaret Sullavan, and Nancy Hawks, all beauties. He was a charismatic man, with gray hair that was carefully styled, and he was always elegantly dressed.
Leland rose from the table to greet me and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I saw no point in reminding him that I had been a seventeen-dollar-a-week client with his agency, twelve years earlier. We started lunch and he turned out to be an interesting and witty conversationalist.
We talked about the play.
“I read it. I think it’s wonderful.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re doing the screenplay.”
He had arranged for me to see the play that evening. It was an excellent cast, headlined by Jackie Cooper, Harry Shaw Lowe, Madeleine Morka, and Janis Paige. Also in that cast were two relative unknowns, both of whom later went on to have huge careers—Frank Campanella and Ossie Davis. The evening was as delightful as I had expected it to be.
I went back to Hollywood to write the screenplay. Three months later, I had finished it. I turned it in to the producer, Arthur Hornblow. “It’s very good,” he said. “We’ll put it into production right away.”
“Do you have a cast in mind?”
“The studio is signing June Allyson and Van Johnson.”
“Great.”
A few days later, Dore called me into his office. “The part of Benjamin Goodman would be perfect for Louis Calhern.”
“I agree,” I said. “He’s a gifted actor.”
“There’s one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“He turned it down. He said it’s too small a part.”
He’s right, I thought.
Dore went on. “You’re a good friend of Louis’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to talk him into doing this. He’d be a big asset to the movie.” And that’s when I made up my mind. Dore was right.