I was available.
Billy Rose’s Jumbo had opened on Broadway in 1935. Billy Rose, one of the top producers on Broadway, was not a man to do things in a small way. He had taken over the huge Hippodrome Theatre at Forty-third Street and had rebuilt it like a circus tent, with the audience looking down at the “ring.” Jimmy Durante and Paul Whiteman were in the show, Ben Hecht and Charley MacArthur had written the book, Rodgers and Hart had done the score, and George Abbott had directed. The crème de la crème all the way.
When the show opened, the reviews were excellent, but there was a catch. The production was so expensive that it was impossible for it to break even, let alone make a profit. It closed after five months.
It had been almost ten years since I was last on the MGM lot. Outwardly, it seemed to me that everything was pretty much the same. I was soon to learn how wrong I was.
Joe Pasternak had not changed at all. He still had the same wonderful exuberance.
“I have already signed Doris Day, Martha Raye, and Jimmy Durante. In order to get Doris, I had to make her husband, Marty Melcher, co-producer. Your old friend Chuck Walters is directing.”
That was good news. I had not seen Chuck since we had worked together on Easter Parade.
“Who is going to play the male lead?”
Pasternak hesitated. “We don’t have anyone yet, but there is an actor playing in Camelot on Broadway who might be right for it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Richard Burton. I want you to fly back to New York with Walters and take a look at him.”
“Gladly.”
It was when I went into the commissary to lunch that day that I received my shock. The same hostess, Pauline, was still working there. We greeted each other, and as she started to seat me at a table, I asked, “Where’s the writers’ table?”
“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.”