I brought an aspiring young writer, Herbert Baker, in to work with me on the screenplay. The writing went well. I had Cary Grant in mind as the leading man, but I knew how busy his schedule was.
When I was involved in a project, I became so absorbed that time had no meaning for me. One evening, I was working late at the studio when I got an idea for a scene that excited me. I picked up the telephone and phoned Herbert Baker.
“Get over here right away,” I said. “I have an idea you’re going to love.” I hung up and I kept working.
An hour later, Herbert Baker still had not arrived. I decided to call him again. As I reached for the phone, I looked at my watch.
It was four o’clock in the morning.
When the Dream Wife screenplay was finally finished, I was ready to start casting.
“Who do you want?” the casting department asked.
I did not even hesitate. “My dream cast would be Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
The screenplay was sent to Cary and I got an answer five days later. “Cary loves the script. He’ll do it.”
I was thrilled.
“He gave us a list of directors he’ll work with, I’ll start checking them out.”
The bad news came the next day. “All of Cary’s choices are busy directing other movies. Why don’t you talk to him?”
I arranged to have lunch with Cary.
“Cary, we have a problem. The directors you want are not available. What do you want us to do?”
He thought it over. “I know who should direct this picture.”
I was relieved. “Who?”
“You.”
Me? I shook my head. “Cary, I’ve never directed before.”
“I know how your mind works. I want you to direct it.”
This was obviously going to be a fantastic year for me. How high could an elevator go?
I went to see Dore Schary.
“Cary wants me to direct Dream Wife.”
Dore Schary nodded. “He called me. If that’s what he wants, fine. You’re the director.”
It was like a miracle to me. A few short years ago I had been an usher, watching these glamorous, unreachable stars on the screen. And now I was writing for them, producing, directing them, touching their lives as they had once touched mine.
I was ecstatic. I was joining the roster of all of the talented directors who had worked with Cary—Alfred Hitchcock in Suspicion and Notorious, George Cukor in Holiday and The Philadelphia Story, Leo McCarey in The Awful Truth and Once Upon a Honeymoon, and Howard Hawks in Bringing Up Baby and His Girl Friday.
I got up to leave.
“Wait a minute, Sidney,” Dore said. “This would make you the writer, director, and producer. You really don’t need all those credits.”
I turned to look at him. “What did you have in mind?”
“Why don’t I put my name on as producer,” he said.
It made no difference to me. I nodded. “No problem.”
It was a decision that would almost destroy my career.
We began casting. Walter Pidgeon was signed to the cast, but we were having trouble finding the Middle East princess. I had heard about an actress named Betta St. John, who was in London, starring in South Pacific.
I flew over there to make a test of her. She was perfect for the part and I signed her for the movie. When I returned to the studio, there was a message that Harry Cohn had called. I returned the call.
“Sheldon, I understand that you’re going to direct a picture with Cary Grant.”
“That’s right.”
“Be careful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cary Grant is a killer. He likes to run things. Why do you think he picked you to direct the movie?”
“Because he thinks I—”
“He’s setting you up. He figures that with an inexperienced director, he can get away with murder. Remember this, Sheldon. There can only be one director on a picture. Tell him that.”
I had no intention of telling him that. “Thanks, Harry.”
Cary was coming to the house for lunch the following day. I thought about what I was going to say to him.