and told me to write the script. It was a psycho-thriller, starring Dorothy McGuire. When I handed in the script it was declared disappointing. It hadn't come up to their expectations. They were very polite about it and immediately gave me another book to write. They gave my script to Dore Thompson for revision.
Things like that happen frequently, in fact more often than not. But it was happening to me for the first time, and it upset me. For Margaret it was the end of the world. She couldn't get over it. When I told her about it, she became hysterical. She became hard and bitter. She refused to speak to poor Dore Thompson, as if it were his fault. She said awful things about him whenever she could find a listener. I think part of her trouble was that then, for the first time, she got the feeling that maybe I really was just a middle-of-the road writer and would never make it to the top.
That preview took place on the evening of February 23. It happened to be a very cold day. The small projection room was poorly heated and filled to capacity. All technicians and the entire artistic staff were present—the producer, the director, and Jack Warner personally.
Margaret was by now big with child which made her self-conscious. Even maternity dresses couldn't hide the fact. She was irritable and felt insecure. She smiled her madonna smile courageously in every direction. She couldn't help noticing that many times it wasn't answered.
Then we watched the picture. She nudged me and cleared her throat indignantly when she saw the credits. "Written by Dore Thompson. Based on a short story by James Elroy Chandler."
"Shh!" I hissed desperately.
"What the hell!" she hissed back,
"Margaret, please!"
After that she was quiet, for ninety minutes, eerily quiet. She sat there, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes glued on the screen. That she was so quiet worried me all the more because the picture wasn't good. I say this not because they scrapped my script. It really wasn't good, and the reviews and public reaction soon told the same story. Dore Thompson had made an indigestible, long-winded, leaden affair out of a theme that was based primarily on a certain breathlessness, on plot and, above all, on suspense. But right then all this was irrelevant. One of the rules of the business is that at the showing of a new film, the people who worked on it have to be congratulated as if it were a masterpiece. Whoever goes against this rule can never atone for his sin. This was the reason—or at least one of the reasons—why there was a general movement of congratulations and handshaking when the lights went on again.
Margaret sat there, her lips white. She wouldn't look at me. She remained seated while I got up to participate in the conversations going on around me. She had an excuse for remaining seated; everyone knew of her condition.
I went over to Dorothy McGuire first. "Wonderful, Dorothy," I said. "Really wonderful. I mean it. I think it's the best thing you've done."
"How sweet of you, Jimmy. But you're exaggerating."
*Tm not, Dorothy. Really. Don't you agree, Mr. Warner?"
Old man Warner nodded, smiled, and patted Dorothy's hand. "Yes, my child. I'm very happy about it."
"So am I!" It was Dore Thompson. He kissed Dorothy's hand. "In fact I'm crazy about your performance."
"Dore," I said, "it was my idea, but then Mr. Warner gave you the script, so I hope you'll be happy to know that I think you've done a great job."
"Thanks, Jimmy, thanks. Coming from you it does mean more." And so on and so forth.
Drinks were served, and somehow nobody seemed able to leave the projection room. It was always like that, especially in the case of a picture where everybody felt things weren't quite right. One wandered from group to group, exchanging pleasantries. It was a modest luxury. One got to hear plenty of unpleasant things outside, and it's an old story: the entertainer Uves more on applause than on bread.
Jack Warner walked back
Things like that happen frequently, in fact more often than not. But it was happening to me for the first time, and it upset me. For Margaret it was the end of the world. She couldn't get over it. When I told her about it, she became hysterical. She became hard and bitter. She refused to speak to poor Dore Thompson, as if it were his fault. She said awful things about him whenever she could find a listener. I think part of her trouble was that then, for the first time, she got the feeling that maybe I really was just a middle-of-the road writer and would never make it to the top.
That preview took place on the evening of February 23. It happened to be a very cold day. The small projection room was poorly heated and filled to capacity. All technicians and the entire artistic staff were present—the producer, the director, and Jack Warner personally.
Margaret was by now big with child which made her self-conscious. Even maternity dresses couldn't hide the fact. She was irritable and felt insecure. She smiled her madonna smile courageously in every direction. She couldn't help noticing that many times it wasn't answered.
Then we watched the picture. She nudged me and cleared her throat indignantly when she saw the credits. "Written by Dore Thompson. Based on a short story by James Elroy Chandler."
"Shh!" I hissed desperately.
"What the hell!" she hissed back,
"Margaret, please!"
After that she was quiet, for ninety minutes, eerily quiet. She sat there, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes glued on the screen. That she was so quiet worried me all the more because the picture wasn't good. I say this not because they scrapped my script. It really wasn't good, and the reviews and public reaction soon told the same story. Dore Thompson had made an indigestible, long-winded, leaden affair out of a theme that was based primarily on a certain breathlessness, on plot and, above all, on suspense. But right then all this was irrelevant. One of the rules of the business is that at the showing of a new film, the people who worked on it have to be congratulated as if it were a masterpiece. Whoever goes against this rule can never atone for his sin. This was the reason—or at least one of the reasons—why there was a general movement of congratulations and handshaking when the lights went on again.
Margaret sat there, her lips white. She wouldn't look at me. She remained seated while I got up to participate in the conversations going on around me. She had an excuse for remaining seated; everyone knew of her condition.
I went over to Dorothy McGuire first. "Wonderful, Dorothy," I said. "Really wonderful. I mean it. I think it's the best thing you've done."
"How sweet of you, Jimmy. But you're exaggerating."
*Tm not, Dorothy. Really. Don't you agree, Mr. Warner?"
Old man Warner nodded, smiled, and patted Dorothy's hand. "Yes, my child. I'm very happy about it."
"So am I!" It was Dore Thompson. He kissed Dorothy's hand. "In fact I'm crazy about your performance."
"Dore," I said, "it was my idea, but then Mr. Warner gave you the script, so I hope you'll be happy to know that I think you've done a great job."
"Thanks, Jimmy, thanks. Coming from you it does mean more." And so on and so forth.
Drinks were served, and somehow nobody seemed able to leave the projection room. It was always like that, especially in the case of a picture where everybody felt things weren't quite right. One wandered from group to group, exchanging pleasantries. It was a modest luxury. One got to hear plenty of unpleasant things outside, and it's an old story: the entertainer Uves more on applause than on bread.
Jack Warner walked back
Similar Books
