My mouth was dry. “How serious is it?” I asked.
“Manic-depressive illness can have a devastating effect on people. At least two million Americans suffer from it, one in ten families. For some reason, it seems to strike artistic people. Vincent Van Gogh had it, Herman Melville, Edgar Allan Poe, Virginia Woolf, to name a few.”
That made me feel no better. That was their problem.
“How long will it take to cure it?” I asked.
There was a long pause. “There is no cure.”
I started to panic. “What?”
“The best we can do is to try to control it with drugs.” He hesitated. “The problem is that sometimes there are bad side effects. Approximately one in five people who are manic-depressive eventually commit suicide. Twenty to fifty percent attempt suicide at least once. It’s a major contributing factor in thirty thousand suicides a year.”
I sat there, listening, feeling suddenly sick.
“There will be times when, with no warning, you will lose control of your words and your actions.”
I was finding it hard to breathe.
Dr. Marmer continued. “There are various forms of the disorder. Some people can go weeks, months, or years with no extreme ups and downs. They have periods of normal moods. That type is classified as ‘euthymia.’ I believe that’s the form you have. Unfortunately, as I said, there is no cure.”
Now at least what was happening to me had a name. He gave me a prescription and I left his office, shaken. And then I thought, He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. I’m fine.
CHAPTER 19
Myths and rumors surround Oscar. If you win him, you’ll never want again. If you win him, you’ll never work again.
A week after I received my Oscar, Sam Weisbord stopped by my office.
“Congratulations, again. Where are you going to keep it?”
“I want to be modest about it. What would you think about the roof of my house with half a dozen spotlights on it?”
He laughed. “Spectacular!”
“I have to tell you, Sammy, winning it was a complete shock to me.”
“I know,” he said, dryly. “I heard your speech.” He sat down and added casually, “By the way, I’ve just come from Benny Thau’s office.” Thau was Metro’s deal-maker. “You have a seven-year contract here. They gave us everything we asked for.”
I couldn’t believe it. “That’s wonderful.” The power of the Oscar.
“One of the things they caved in on was your request to take three months a year off anytime you want to.”
“Great.” I wanted to be free to do other things.
I had moved into a small carriage house in Westwood. The house consisted of a small bedroom, a small den, a small living room, a small kitchen, and two small bathrooms. There was a garage attached that was bigger than the house. Tony Curtis and the beautiful Janet Leigh, both extremely talented actors, lived in an apartment a few doors away. They had a car, but no place to park it.
At a dinner party one night, Tony said, “We’re having a problem parking on the street. I wonder if we could rent your garage.”
“You can’t rent it,” I said, “but you can use it,” and from then on their car was parked in my garage.
My house was much too small to give parties in, but I didn’t know that, so I gave a lot of parties. I had been lucky enough to find a terrific Filipino cook, who also bartended and cleaned the house. Since I started at MGM, I had met a lot of interesting people. Ira Gershwin came to dinner with his wife, Lee. Kirk Douglas, Sid Caesar, and Steve Allen also came, along with their significant others. It was a long and wonderful guest list. More than once, Jules Stein, head of MCA, the most powerful talent agency in Hollywood, came to dinner with his wife, Doris. We often sat on the floor because there were not enough chairs, but no one seemed to mind.
One of the most interesting men I met was Robert Schiffer, head of makeup at Disney Studios. He was English and had flown with the Royal Air Force during World War II. He owned a yacht and had traveled all over the world.
In 1946, Schiffer was working on a Rita Hayworth movie. Rita was about to start another one for Harry Cohn. Instead, she and Schiffer decided to run away to Mexico. The picture was held up while they had a romantic vacation. Harry Cohn was going crazy because he could not find them.
Every Saturday afternoon, I had a gin game at my house. There were half a dozen regulars. Jerry Davis, a writer-producer, was one of them, along with the director Stanley Donen, Bob Schiffer, and several others. Elizabeth Taylor, then in her early twenties, was going with Stanley, and every Saturday she would come to prepare lunch for us while we played gin.
Elizabeth was petite and sensual, with incredible violet eyes and a hint of the magic that was going to make her a legend. It was hard to believe that this beauty was in my kitchen making sandwiches every Saturday.
Cyd Charisse was under contract to MGM. She was sexy and talented. She had joined the Ballet Russe when she was thirteen, and was a superb dancer. I had taken her out a few times. We had a date for a Saturday night when she called to cancel it.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
Cyd was evasive. “I’ll tell you more about it Monday.”
She did not have to tell me. It was in all the headlines. Over the weekend she had married the popular singer Tony Martin.
Cyd called me. “I guess you heard the news.”
“I did. I hope you and Tony will be very happy.”
I tried to forget Cyd by burying myself in my work. I was ready for another assignment.