Donald did the stunt superbly.
A later scene in the movie was another Buster Keaton classic. It took place at the shipyards and we went to the oceanside to shoot it. It was the launching of a boat, and Donald proudly stood at the prow as the boat came off the ramp.
The front of the boat slowly slid under the water, going deeper and deeper, and Donald stood there without expression as he slowly submerged until only his hat floated.
During the shooting of the picture, I learned how shy Buster was. Jorja and I had invited Buster and his wife, Eleanor, to dinner. The guests included a studio head, some directors, and several well-known actors and actresses.
I knew Buster had arrived at the house, but I had not yet seen him. I walked into the den. He was alone, reading a newspaper.
“Are you all right, Buster?”
He looked up. “I’m fine.” And he went back to reading his newspaper.
When the picture was finished, Buster said, “I want to thank you.”
“What for?”
“I was able to buy a house.”
Everyone at the studio was very happy. The Buster Keaton Story was my last picture under my contract at Paramount, but they were already talking to my agent about a new contract. My life had never been so serendipitous.
I had discussed with Don Hartman an idea I had for a suspense movie called Zone of Terror that would be shot in Europe.
In April 1957, an article appeared in Daily Variety:
Where to go in April? That’s the problem facing Sidney Sheldon.
Buster Keaton, which he directed, co-produced and co-scripted at Paramount, will be opening next month. On April 27, his play, Alice in Arms, will open in Vienna. At the same time, rehearsals start in New York on his revised version of The Merry Widow, with the Kiepuras, set for a mid-May opening. Sheldon is at work on his next project, Zone of Terror, slated to go before the cameras in Germany next year.
I knew how I was going to spend my time in April. I was going to take Jorja and Mary to Europe to celebrate.
The Buster Keaton Story opened to good reviews for Donald O’Connor, Ann Blyth, Peter Lorre, and the rest of the cast. The script did not fare so well. Most of the critics attacked it, saying there should have been more of Buster’s routines and less story.
“The screenplay is a rehash of too many old Hollywood movies.”
They were right. We had written it too quickly. The picture opened well because people were intrigued by Buster Keaton’s name. But word of mouth quickly spread and the picture soon faded at the box office.
My agent called. “I just talked to Don Hartman. The studio is not going to renew your contract.”
I knew where the reporter from Variety could find me in April. In the unemployment line.
Reluctantly, I canceled our reservations to Europe. I called my agent once a week, and tried to sound cheerful.
“What’s happening on the battlefront?”
“Not much,” he said. “There aren’t any assignments around, Sidney.”
That was a kind lie. There were always assignments around, but none for me. Just as I had been prematurely judged for Dream Wife, I was now being judged for the failure of The Buster Keaton Story. Again I was traumatized by the thought that I might never work again. During the times I was out of work, friends came and went, but Groucho was always there with a cheery word.
I waited for the call that never came, weeks went by, then months, and soon I had a major money problem.
I enjoyed living well, but I had never been interested in money per se. My philosophy about money was a combination of Natalie’s thrift and Otto’s spendthrift ways. I found it difficult to spend any money on myself, but I had no problem helping others. The result was that I had never been able to save any money.
The Bel Air house had a mortgage on it and I was hard pressed to also pay the salaries of a gardener, a pool man, and Laura. Our financial situation was rapidly deteriorating.
Jorja was getting concerned. “What are we going to do?”
“We have to start economizing,” I said. I took a deep breath and added, “We’re going to have to let Laura go. We can’t afford a maid anymore.”
It was a terrible moment for both of us.
“You tell her,” Jorja said. “I can’t.”
Laura had been wonderful. She was always cheerful and helpful. She adored Mary and Mary adored her.
“This is going to be very difficult.”
I called Laura into the library. “Laura, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
She looked at me in alarm. “What is it? Is someone sick?”
“We’re fine. It’s just that . . . I’m going to have to let you go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t afford you anymore, Laura.”
She looked shocked. “You mean you’re firing me?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m terribly sorry.”
She shook her head. “You can’t do that.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t afford to pay you anymore and—”
“I’m staying.”
“Laura—”
“I’m staying.” And she walked out of the room.
Jorja and I had been forced to cut down on our social life, and we went out very seldom. There were plays that we wanted to see, but they were too expensive. Laura heard Jorja and me talking about it.
As we debated going out one evening, Laura said, “Take this,” and she handed me twenty dollars.
“I can’t take that,” I said.
“You’ll pay me back.”
I was near tears. She was working hard, getting no salary, and she was giving me money.