"Eddie Dmytryk wants to direct your story," Dore said.
I smiled. "Yes. That's terrific."
"I'm not going to let the studio buy it."
It took a moment for it to sink in. "What? Why?"
"I'm not going to make a picture about a man who's unfaithful to his wife and plans to murder her."
"But Dore - "
"That's it. We're giving the story back to you."
I was devastated. "Okay."
I would have to find another project to work on.
I had no idea that Dore's rejection of my script was going to change my life.
My agent, Sammy Weisbord, called. "I just made a deal for you at MGM with a two-week guarantee. They want you to write Pride and Prejudice."
I had not read the book in years. All I remembered about it was that it was a Jane Austen, pre-Victorian, English society classic about five daughters looking for husbands.
The idea of working at MGM was exciting. It was the Tiffany of all Hollywood studios. The roster of their movies included classics like Gone With the Wind, Meet Me in St. Louis, The Wizard of Oz, The Philadelphia Story, The Great Ziegfeld, and dozens of other great films.
I was twenty-nine years old when I walked onto the MGM lot for the first time. I was awed. MGM was a city in itself. It had its own supply of electricity, food, and water. Every conceivable need was met on site.
The studio, like the other six major studios, produced an average of one film a week. There were 150 writers under contract at MGM, and they included famous novelists and playwrights.
On my first day there, I had lunch at the huge commissary. I was invited to sit at the writers' table, where a dozen writers had gathered. They were a friendly group and there was a lot of advice offered.
"Don't worry if some of your scripts aren't made. The rule of thumb here is if you get a script made every three years, you're okay . . ."
"Try to get on a picture with Arthur Freed. He's the big producer here . . ."
"When your contract is about to run out, make sure you get on an assignment so they'll pick you up . . ."
I did not explain that my contract consisted of a two-week guarantee.
I had been given a small office and a secretary.
"We're going to do Pride and Prejudice," I told her. "Can you get a copy of the book for me? I'd like to read it again."
"Certainly."
She dialed a studio number and said, "Mr. Sheldon would like a copy of Pride and Prejudice."
The book was delivered in thirty minutes.
That was my introduction to the studio system. Every studio had a library, a research department, a casting department, a set department, a cinematography department, and a business department. It was almost biblical. All you had to do was ask and it was given to you.
The following morning, Sammy Weisbord came into my office. "How are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm just getting started," I told him.
"Arthur Freed would like to see you."
I was surprised. "Why?"
"Let him tell you. He's waiting for you."
I had heard stories about Arthur Freed. He had started as an insurance salesman and had become a successful songwriter, with songs such as "The Broadway Melody," "Good Morning," "On a Sunday Afternoon," and "Singin' in the Rain."
He had gotten friendly with Louis B. Mayer, who made him a producer.
It was said of Freed that he always had to be first to know things. One of the writers told me the following story:
A friend invited Freed to the opening of a play. "I've seen it," Freed said.
Another time someone asked him if he'd like to go to the premiere of a movie. "I've seen it," Freed said.
A friend asked him if he'd like to go to a baseball game that night. "I've seen it," Freed said.
Sammy and I walked down the hall and took the elevator up to the third floor, where Arthur Freed's office was. Freed sat behind his desk in a huge office. He was a stocky man in his fifties, with thin gray hair.
"Sit down, Sheldon."
I sat.
"I have a problem. I have a script here that I can't seem to cast. Everyone's turning it down. It's a musical and it's well written, but the plot is wrong. It's too heavy. It needs a light touch. Do you think you can help it?"
"Well, I'm working on Pride and Prejudice, but - "
"Not anymore," Freed said. "You're working on this."
"What's the name of it?"
"Easter Parade. You'll be working with Irving Berlin."
That was a magical moment. It was my third day at MGM and I was going to work with the legendary Irving Berlin.
"I'd love to do it," I said.
"Judy Garland and Gene Kelly are going to star in it."
I tried to look nonchalant. "Oh?"
"I want to get it into production as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
"Look over the screenplay and see what you think you can do with it. You'll have a meeting here tomorrow with Irving."
I floated out of Freed's office. Weisbord watched me and smiled.
"Come through with this," he said, "and you're fixed for life."
I was glowing. "I know."
The elevator was definitely up.
The original screenplay of Easter Parade had been written by the husband and wife team of Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich. They were brilliant writers who later wrote the smash Broadway play The Diary of Anne Frank.
But Freed was right. What the screenplay needed was humor and a light touch. The story the Hacketts had written was too serious for a musical. I sat down to create a new story line.