“Cut! Cary, what are you doing?”
He was all innocence. “I’m doing the scene.”
“Do it without your eyebrows.”
“Right.”
“Action.”
The scene started again and so did the eyebrows. It was so ridiculous that it broke me up. I was behind the camera. I did not want to spoil the scene, so I bit my hand to keep from laughing aloud. I had made no sound, but in the middle of the scene, Cary, whose back was to me, turned and said, “Sidney, if you’re going to laugh like that, I can’t do the scene.”
Cary and I reached a kind of détente. The fact was that we liked each other too much to carry on a feud.
One day, Elvis Presley came on the set to watch us shooting. He was at the height of his popularity and I had no idea what to expect. He turned out to be extraordinarily polite and modest. It was “Mr. Sheldon” and “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.” Everyone was very taken with him.
What happened to him later on in his life was dreadful. He was on drugs, and ruined his voice, and grew fat and unattractive.
When he died, some cynic said, “Good career move.”
When we finished shooting, Cary and I had lunch.
Cary said, “Sidney, anytime you want to direct me in another movie, just tell me. I don’t even have to read the script.”
This was enormously flattering coming from a star who was eagerly sought after by every studio.
Dore and the rest of the executives saw the finished picture and were ecstatic.
Dore said to me, “I have great news. Radio City Music Hall has accepted the picture.”
I was thrilled. It was a director’s dream to get into the prestigious Radio City Music Hall, and I had done it with the first picture I directed.
“I’m proud of you,” Dore said. “You did a great job.”
Eddie Mannix spoke up. “Gentlemen, we have a hit on our hands.”
Howard Strickling, head of publicity, agreed. “This calls for a big publicity campaign.”
Dore smiled. “Let’s get started.”
The elevator was at the top floor. Nothing could go wrong.
CHAPTER 23
At a dinner party one evening, I was seated next to Groucho Marx.
I nodded and said, “I’m Sidney Sheldon.”
He turned and glared at me. “No.” He went back to his shrimp cocktail.
I was puzzled. “No, what?”
“You’re a fraud. I know Sidney Sheldon. He’s handsomer and taller than you, and he’s a great juggler. Can you juggle?”
“No.”
“See?”
“Mr. Marx—”
“Don’t call me Mr. Marx.”
“What do you like to be called?”
“Sally. I’ve read some of the things you’ve done.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” He looked me over again. “You’re too thin. Whoever you are, you and your wife should come to my house tomorrow night for dinner. Eight o’clock. And don’t be late again.”
I introduced Jorja to Groucho and there was an instant rapport. That was the beginning of our lifelong relationship with Groucho.
At Groucho’s dinner parties, there were always some of Groucho’s lines for his guests to quote: “I find television very educational. Every time someone turns it on, I go into the other room and read a book.”
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
“I had a wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”
“Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?”
Once, he had to visit a doctor. A beautiful young nurse came up to him and said, “The doctor will see you now. Walk this way.” Groucho looked at her swaying hips and said, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t have to see a doctor.”
We saw Groucho often and as we got to know him, I realized that people didn’t really understand him. When he insulted them, they thought it was funny. They felt rather proud to be the object of his wit. What they didn’t realize was that Groucho meant everything he said. He was a misanthrope and was completely honest about his feelings.
He had had a bitter childhood. He was pulled out of school when he was seven and he and his brothers went to the stage. The Marx Brothers made fourteen pictures together. Groucho made five more on his own.