He had gotten friendly with Louis B. Mayer, who made him a producer.
It was said of Freed that he always had to be first to know things. One of the writers told me the following story:
A friend invited Freed to the opening of a play. “I’ve seen it,” Freed said.
Another time someone asked him if he’d like to go to the premiere of a movie. “I’ve seen it,” Freed said.
A friend asked him if he’d like to go to a baseball game that night. “I’ve seen it,” Freed said.
Sammy and I walked down the hall and took the elevator up to the third floor, where Arthur Freed’s office was. Freed sat behind his desk in a huge office. He was a stocky man in his fifties, with thin gray hair.
“Sit down, Sheldon.”
I sat.
“I have a problem. I have a script here that I can’t seem to cast. Everyone’s turning it down. It’s a musical and it’s well written, but the plot is wrong. It’s too heavy. It needs a light touch. Do you think you can help it?”
“Well, I’m working on Pride and Prejudice, but—”
“Not anymore,” Freed said. “You’re working on this.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Easter Parade. You’ll be working with Irving Berlin.”
That was a magical moment. It was my third day at MGM and I was going to work with the legendary Irving Berlin.
“I’d love to do it,” I said.
“Judy Garland and Gene Kelly are going to star in it.”
I tried to look nonchalant. “Oh?”
“I want to get it into production as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look over the screenplay and see what you think you can do with it. You’ll have a meeting here tomorrow with Irving.”
I floated out of Freed’s office. Weisbord watched me and smiled.
“Come through with this,” he said, “and you’re fixed for life.”
I was glowing. “I know.”
The elevator was definitely up.
The original screenplay of Easter Parade had been written by the husband and wife team of Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich. They were brilliant writers who later wrote the smash Broadway play The Diary of Anne Frank.
But Freed was right. What the screenplay needed was humor and a light touch. The story the Hacketts had written was too serious for a musical. I sat down to create a new story line.
The following morning, I was summoned to Arthur Freed’s office. With him was a short man with a cherubic face and bright, inquisitive eyes.
“This is Irving Berlin.”
In the flesh. The genius who had written “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” “God Bless America,” “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” and “Top Hat.” Someone once asked Jerome Kern what he thought Irving Berlin’s place would be in American music.
Kern said simply, “Irving Berlin is American music.”
“I’m Sidney Sheldon,” I said, pretending not to be completely awestruck.
Mr. Berlin held out his hand. “I’m happy to meet you. I understand we’re going to work together.” He spoke in a high-pitched voice.
“Yes, sir.” I did not mention my New York experience where I had almost replaced him as the top songwriter in America because we were going to work together, and I did not want to make him nervous.
When we started to work on Easter Parade, Irving Berlin was sixty years old, with the enthusiasm of a teenager.
He had been born Israel Baline in Russia and had come to the United States when he was five. He started his career as a singing waiter at the Chinatown Cafe in New York. He had never learned to play the piano on a regular piano. He used only the black keys, and he had an instrument that changed keys at the push of a lever.
Irving Berlin had questions and comments as I talked about the possible directions the screenplay could go, but oddly enough, Arthur Freed seemed to take no interest in what we were doing. He was completely silent. It was not until later that I found out why.
I said, “Mr. Berlin, I want to tell you—”
He stopped me. “Irving.”
“Thank you. I want to tell you how excited I am to be working with you.”
He smiled. “We’re going to have a good time.”
The writing was going well. I remembered what Sam Weisbord had said. Come through with this, and you’re fixed for life.
Several times a week, while I was writing the script, Irving Berlin would bounce into my office.
“Tell me what you think of this,” he would say enthusiastically. And in that shrill voice of his, he would begin singing a song he had just written. The only problem was that he could not carry a tune, and I had no idea what the song sounded like. He could not play the piano, and he could not sing. All he had was his genius.
I had lunch every day at the writers’ table in the commissary and one of the writers would usually invite me to visit his set after lunch. The pictures shooting on the lot were The Best Years of Our Lives, with Myrna Loy and Fredric March; Saratoga Trunk, with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman; and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, with Danny Kaye and Virginia Mayo.
I went on the soundstages and watched the stars going through their scenes just a few feet away from me. These were the stars I had watched from the back aisle of the RKO Jefferson Theatre, when I was an usher. Now, every week I saw the biggest stars in Hollywood making their movies, and it was a wondrous time for me.
I was finishing the script of Easter Parade when Sammy Weisbord came into my office.