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.
The next night, I invited Calhern to dinner at a restaurant. He looked around the room and said, “I hope no one sees us together. It would spoil my reputation. I should have worn a mask.”
“I understand you turned down the part of Benjamin Goodman.”
“You call that a part?” he snorted. “By the way, I liked your script.”
I began my pitch. “Louie, it’s going to be a big picture and I want you to be part of it. Your character is essential to the plot. Your performance would make the picture. It’s going to vault your career to the top. And it would be very good for you—”
I went on for the next half hour being Otto, and when I was through, Calhern said, “You’re right. I’ll do it.”
The reviews and the box office were only fair and it did not vault Calhern’s career to the top.