Cary Grant was a legend—suave and sophisticated and smooth.
“Everyone wants to be Cary Grant,” he once said. “Even I want to be Cary Grant.”
When I met Shirley Temple, she was an eighteen-year-old grown-up, and she was a delight. As a child, she had been the biggest star in the motion picture world, her pictures grossing hundreds of millions of dollars. In spite of her fame, she had turned into a normal, attractive young woman.
The cast was rounded out by Myrna Loy, a skilled actress. Myrna had starred in The Thin Man series, The Best Years of Our Lives, Arrowsmith, and dozens of other movies.
I was thrilled with the cast. We were almost ready to make the movie.
Cary and I were having lunch in the studio commissary a week before Suddenly It’s Spring was to start. He said, “We’re having a problem finding a second male lead. We’ve tested half a dozen people and no one is right. You know who would be perfect for the role?”
I was curious. “Who?”
“You. Would you be interested in testing with me?”
I looked at him in surprise. Did I want to be an actor? I had never thought about it. But why not? I could be a writer/movie star. Noel Coward and a few others had done it.
“Are you interested, Sidney?”
“Yes.” I knew how simple acting was. I had written the original story, the screenplay, and the test scene, so I knew every word. All I had to do was say the lines. Anyone could do that.
Cary got up and telephoned Dore Schary, and when Cary and I finished lunch, we walked back to the set. The test scene was with just Cary and me. It was a simple scene, with only a dozen or so lines.
As I looked at Cary, I wondered what stardom was going to be like for me, because I knew that co-starring in a movie with Cary Grant was going to change my life. I would be getting offers and proposals to star in other movies. I would be internationally famous. From now on, I would have no privacy and no leisure. My life would belong to the public. But I was prepared to make the sacrifice.
We had reached the soundstage. Irving Reis said, “Quiet on the set, everybody.”
Everyone was suddenly still, watching us.
Irving Reis said, “Camera.” He turned to us. “Action.”
Cary gave me my cue. I stared at him for a long, long moment while he waited for me to speak. I looked up at what seemed to be millions of people staring down from the catwalk, and suddenly I was back at school, with my play, standing on the stage, laughing hysterically. I panicked and, without a word, I turned and fled from the soundstage.
That was the end of my acting career. Now that the burden of stardom was no longer weighing me down, I could go back to work on my screenplay.
Dore hired Rudy Vallee to replace me and Suddenly It’s Spring began shooting. Everyone seemed pleased with the way it was going.
One day David Selznick called me into his office. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Certainly, David.”
“It’s National Brotherhood Week. Every year a different studio makes a short film about bringing all religions together.”
I knew about it. When the short film was over, the lights would come on in the theaters and ushers would walk up and down the aisles, collecting money for the charity.
“We’re doing it this year. I want you to write it.”
“No problem.”
“We have half a dozen stars lined up. You’ll write about two minutes for each one.”
“I’ll get to work on it.”
The next day I brought in a two-page script I had written for Van Johnson, who was to be photographed first. Selznick read it. “Good. Take it to Van. He’s in a bungalow on the back lot.”
I carried the two pages over to Van Johnson’s bungalow. When he saw me, he opened the door, and I introduced myself. At that time Van Johnson was one of the biggest stars at MGM.
“Here are your pages,” I said. “We’re ready to shoot as soon as you are.”