The cast was praised, the director was praised. The reviews were unanimous. The movie won the Box Office Blue Ribbon Award and I was nominated for an Oscar. I knew that nothing could stop me now. Careers in Hollywood were like elevators constantly going up and down. The trick was not to leave the elevator when it was down.
The elevator for me was definitely up. I was on top of the world.
I had written an original treatment about a troubled marriage, called Orchids for Virginia. Eddie Dmytryk, a director at RKO, liked it.
“I’m going to ask the studio to buy it for me. I want you to do the screenplay. I’ll get you thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“Great.” I was more than pleased because I needed the money.
One week later, Dore Schary was made the executive producer in charge of production at RKO. He called me into his office and I knew he wanted to congratulate me on Orchids for Virginia. I was going to ask him how soon I could start the screenplay.
“Eddie Dmytryk wants to direct your story,” Dore said.
I smiled. “Yes. That’s terrific.”
“I’m not going to let the studio buy it.”
It took a moment for it to sink in. “What? Why?”
“I’m not going to make a picture about a man who’s unfaithful to his wife and plans to murder her.”
“But Dore—”
“That’s it. We’re giving the story back to you.”
I was devastated. “Okay.”
I would have to find another project to work on.
I had no idea that Dore’s rejection of my script was going to change my life.
My agent, Sammy Weisbord, called. “I just made a deal for you at MGM with a two-week guarantee. They want you to write Pride and Prejudice.”
I had not read the book in years. All I remembered about it was that it was a Jane Austen, pre-Victorian, English society classic about five daughters looking for husbands.
The idea of working at MGM was exciting. It was the Tiffany of all Hollywood studios. The roster of their movies included classics like Gone With the Wind, Meet Me in St. Louis, The Wizard of Oz, The Philadelphia Story, The Great Ziegfeld, and dozens of other great films.
I was twenty-nine years old when I walked onto the MGM lot for the first time. I was awed. MGM was a city in itself. It had its own supply of electricity, food, and water. Every conceivable need was met on site.
The studio, like the other six major studios, produced an average of one film a week. There were 150 writers under contract at MGM, and they included famous novelists and playwrights.
On my first day there, I had lunch at the huge commissary. I was invited to sit at the writers’ table, where a dozen writers had gathered. They were a friendly group and there was a lot of advice offered.
“Don’t worry if some of your scripts aren’t made. The rule of thumb here is if you get a script made every three years, you’re okay . . .”
“Try to get on a picture with Arthur Freed. He’s the big producer here . . .”
“When your contract is about to run out, make sure you get on an assignment so they’ll pick you up . . .”
I did not explain that my contract consisted of a two-week guarantee.
I had been given a small office and a secretary.
“We’re going to do Pride and Prejudice,” I told her. “Can you get a copy of the book for me? I’d like to read it again.”
“Certainly.”
She dialed a studio number and said, “Mr. Sheldon would like a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
The book was delivered in thirty minutes.
That was my introduction to the studio system. Every studio had a library, a research department, a casting department, a set department, a cinematography department, and a business department. It was almost biblical. All you had to do was ask and it was given to you.
The following morning, Sammy Weisbord came into my office. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m just getting started,” I told him.
“Arthur Freed would like to see you.”