St. Paul Minneapolis Dispatch: “As delightful a comedy as ever you’d care to see.”
Chicago Tribune: “A tight script and good direction.”
Los Angeles Daily News: “Writer/director Sidney Sheldon, whose talent for light comedy stirs our memories of the late Ernst Lubitsch . . .”
Showmen’s Trade Review: “A beautifully done feature that will draw audiences into any house regardless of size or locale.”
Dream Wife was nominated for the Exhibitors Laurel Award, but it was too late to revive the picture. It was over. Dore had killed it. How did I feel about the reviews? It was like winning the lottery and losing my ticket.
The telephone rang early one morning and before I picked it up, I wondered what more bad news there could be. It was my agent.
“Sidney?”
“Yes.”
“You have a ten o’clock appointment at Paramount tomorrow morning with Don Hartman, the head of production.”
I swallowed. “Good.”
“Don is very punctual, so don’t be late.”
“Late? I’m leaving now.”
Don Hartman had started as a writer. He had written more than a dozen movies, including the Road pictures, with Crosby and Hope. Y. Frank Freeman, who was the head of Paramount, had put Don Hartman in charge of the studio two years earlier.
Every studio has its own aura. Paramount was one of the top majors. Beside the Hope and Crosby Road pictures, the studio produced Sunset Boulevard, Going My Way, and Calcutta.
Don was in his early fifties, upbeat and cordial.
“I’m glad to have you here, Sidney.”
He had no idea how glad I was to be there.
“Have you ever seen a Martin and Lewis movie?”
“No.” But I certainly knew about Martin and Lewis.
Dino Crocetti had been a boxer, blackjack dealer, singer, and would-be comic. Joseph Levitch had been a stand-up comic in small nightclubs around the country. They met in 1945 and decided to work together, changing their names to Martin and Lewis. Individually, their careers had been unsuccessful. Together they were magic. I had seen a newsreel clip of them when they were playing at the Paramount Theatre in New York, and the streets had been jammed for blocks with screaming admirers.
“We have a picture for them we’d like you to write. It’s called You’re Never Too Young. Norman Taurog is directing.”
I had worked with Norman on Rich, Young and Pretty.
It felt wonderful to be working at a studio again. I had a reason to get up in the morning, knowing that the work I loved to do was waiting for me.
When I got home that first evening, Jorja said, “You look like a different person.”
And I felt like a different person. The frustration of being out of a job so long had been corrosive.
Paramount was a very friendly studio and it seemed to me there was much less pressure than there had been at MGM.
You’re Never Too Young was the story of a young barber’s assistant who is forced to disguise himself as a twelve-year-old boy after getting involved in a jewel robbery. It was a remake of The Major and the Minor, a 1942 film directed by Billy Wilder, and starring Ginger Rogers and Ray Milland.
When I finished the screenplay, we had a reading with the cast, the producer, and the director.
I said to Dean and Jerry, “If there are any lines that bother you, please let me know and I’ll be happy to change them.”
Dean got to his feet. “Great script. I’ve got a golf date. Bye.”
And he was out the door.
Jerry said, “I have a couple of questions.”
We sat there for the next two hours while Jerry asked about the sets, camera angles, our approach to some of the scenes, and what seemed to be a hundred other questions. Obviously the two partners had different priorities.
No one knew it then, but this was a foretelling of why Jerry and Dean split up years later.
You’re Never Too Young opened to good reviews and big box office numbers. As a celebration of my newly restored career, I bought a beautiful house in Bel Air, with a swimming pool and lovely grounds. All was right with the world again. I decided it was time for Jorja and me to take another vacation in Europe.