“Thank you.” He added, ruefully, “I had a terrible dream last night.”
“What was that?”
“I dreamt that this big star coming over from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer learned his lines, and then they kept changing them, and he panicked. The dream woke me up.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry. These are your lines.”
He smiled and glanced down at the pages. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
I went back to Selznick’s office.
“It’s all set,” I said.
“I have an idea,” Selznick replied. “I want you to change Van’s lines.”
“David, I just left him. He was nervous. He had a nightmare about his lines being changed.”
“To hell with him. Here’s what I want.” And he gave me a new direction for the scene. I hurried back to my office, rewrote it, and showed it to Selznick.
“Good,” he said. “That’s it.”
I hurried back to Van Johnson’s bungalow. He opened the door.
“I’m ready.”
“Van, there’s been a slight change. Mr. Selznick thought this would be better.” I handed him the new pages. He turned pale.
“Sidney, I wasn’t joking about my dream. I really—”
“Van, it’s only two pages. It’s a cinch.”
He took a deep breath. “All right.”
I went back to David Selznick’s office.
“I have another idea,” he said. “It would be better if we took this angle with Van . . .”
I was horrified. “David, he’s already panicky. We can’t keep changing his lines.”
“He’s an actor, isn’t he? Let him learn them.”
He told me what he wanted. Reluctantly, I went back to my office and rewrote the scene.
The hardest part was facing Van Johnson again.
I walked up to his bungalow. He started to say something, then looked at my face. “You didn’t . . .”
“Van, it’s only two pages. This is the last time.”
“God damn it. What are you doing to me?”
I finally got him calmed down. “Come over to the set when you’re ready,” I told him.
I did not go back to David Selznick’s office. The rest of Van’s segment went smoothly.
Richard telephoned the next day.
“Bro?”
It was great to hear his voice. “How are you doing, Richard?”
“Whatever I’ve been doing, I have to do for two now. I’m getting married.”
I was thrilled. “That’s great news! Do I know her?”
“Yes. Joan Stearns.” Joan and Richard had gone to school together in Chicago.
“When is the wedding?”
“In three weeks.”
“Damn! I have to be out of the country, shooting a segment for this project I’m doing for National Brotherhood Week.”
“You’ll meet her when you come back. We’ll come for a visit.”
As promised, Richard and his lovely, upbeat wife arrived in Los Angeles a month later. It was obvious that they were very much in love. We spent a delightful week together, until it was time for them to return to Chicago.
The next morning, when I arrived at my office, my secretary said, “Mr. Selznick would like to see you.”
He was waiting for me. “Sidney, I have some news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m changing the name of the picture. We’re not going to call it Suddenly It’s Spring.”
I was listening. “What are you going to call it?”
“The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer.”
I looked at him a moment, thinking he was joking. He was serious.
“David, no one is going to pay money to see a picture called The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer.”
Fortunately, it turned out that I was wrong.
CHAPTER 17
The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer opened at the six-thousand-seat Radio City Music Hall, the largest movie theater in the world. It played there seven weeks and was the top grosser in the history of the theater. In England, it was the biggest grosser after Gone With the Wind.
The reviews delighted me:
“I beg you, please don’t miss The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer . . .”
“One of the best comedies to hit this town in more than a year . . .”
“A blessed concoction of fun, whimsy and heart . . .”
“A first-rate comedy. You’ll laugh out loud . . .”
“Sidney Sheldon has created the most agreeable film fare . . .”