As the screenplay began to take shape, I was surprised to find it was a musical comedy rather than a revue. It had characters, a story, development, climaxes, and all the paraphernalia of drama. I wondered how it could be called
The Goldwyn Follies
.
At a production meeting one morning, I was rash enough to introduce the subject. Looking back, I find it difficult to understand how even so distantly related a creature as myself at twenty-five could have been so callow.
“Something worries me, Mr. Goldwyn.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
All eyes were suddenly upon me. Eight men whose salary averaged over $3,000 a week waited for me to go on. I hesitated, wondering if I were on the verge of a major
gaffe
. I lit a cigarette, stalling. The pause cost a small fortune.
I exhaled, finally, and pressed on.
“Well,” I said, “it’s the title.”
“The
title
?” echoed Goldwyn, amazed.
“Yes,” I said, brazening it out.
What the hell, I reasoned doggedly, how am I going to get anywhere if I don’t speak up? I had not yet learned that the secret of success in a bureaucratic setup is to be passionately and thoughtfully noncommittal. Those who have learned to say, “I…don’t…know!” with conviction and the appearance of celebration are the ones who survive and prosper.
“
The Goldwyn Follies
?” he asked, still not believing his ears. “That’s your worry? The
title
?”
The concern on the faces of my colleagues told me I had entered the swirling rapids, but it was too late to turn back. I plunged ahead.
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s wrong.”
Goldwyn opened his mouth, but was literally speechless. He looked at everyone else in the room as though requesting reaction. A few meaningless head-shakes, and two or three indecisive nods were all he got. Those fellows were seasoned veterans and knew the score. It was apparent that I did not even know the
game
.
Finally, Goldwyn looked back at me and, in all kindness, asked, “Why?”
“Well,” I said, “what you’ve got here—what Mr. Hecht has done so far—is a book show. Not a revue.” Silence. “I mean, it’s like
Of Thee I Sing
or
Girl Crazy
or
Sunny
.” A longer silence. “Not like
The Bandwagon
or
As Thousands Cheer
or
The Ziegfeld
Follies
.”
Goldwyn exploded. “What the hell is ‘The Ziegfield Follies’ f’Chrissake got to do with it?”
“It’s a
revue
,” I argued. “So the title is right. But for a book show it’s wrong.”
Goldwyn rose, took his attention from me and regarded his staff.
“What the hell’s the matter with this kid?” he asked accusingly. It was as though
they
and not
he
had made the mistake of hiring a half-wit. “Everybody ever
tried
a goddamn revue, they went on their ass! Excuse me. F’Chrissake. Warner’s with that—what was it—with Barrymore and the French fighter and everybody?”
“
The Show of Shows
,” said someone.
“Yeah,” said Goldwyn. “Some show. They lost their balls. And Paramount with—”
“
The Big Broadcast
,” from the room.
“And Metro when they tried—what was it?”
“
The Broadway Melody
,” said the same know-it-all.
“F’Chrissake,” said Goldwyn scornfully. (In point of fact,
The Broadway Melody
had been a great success—but not today, not in this room.) Goldwyn turned to me. Was I through? Not yet. His voice took on a warm, sympathetic tone as he asked, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I had no reply, and retired in disgrace.
Mr. Goldwyn returned to his desk. The conference went on. The subject of the title never came up again.
One night, Goldwyn listened to
The Rudy Vallee Show
on NBC. An obscure ventriloquist named Edgar Bergen and his dummy, Charlie McCarthy, scored a resounding success. Goldwyn lost no time in signing him (them) for
The Goldwyn
Follies
.
Someone on the staff had the temerity to suggest that this may have been something less than an inspired idea.
“A ventriloquist on the screen?” was the objection. “What’s
that
?
I
could be—in the movies—the greatest ventriloquist in the history of show business. My lips wouldn’t move. I could smoke and drink a glass of water—listen, I could sing a bloody duet with myself! A ventriloquist on the screen—it’s ridiculous.”
Goldwyn listened impassively, his finger resting on the side of his nose.
“If that’s the case,” he said, “if what you say is the case—then let me ask you how come these fellows are such a sensation on the
radio
, f’Chrissake? Could you be a big ventriloquist on the radio, f’Chrissake? Then why
aren’t
you? Why is
he
?”
No answers were forthcoming to any of the questions concerned in this barrage, and two days later, the production staff contained one man less.
Goldwyn was right again. He had relied upon instinct rather than reason. Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy captured the imagination of the country that spring in an astounding way. By the time the picture was ready to start, there were no bigger names on the roster of stars.
Bergen and his agents were understandably unhappy. They had committed themselves too soon, a matter of months before Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy had become folk heroes. In the open market, they could now command ten times the fee specified in the Goldwyn contract. They sought an adjustment.
Goldwyn knew that the contract notwithstanding, he would have to revise its terms; a discontented player is not an effective one. Further, Goldwyn did possess a modified sense of fair play. As an inspired negotiator, however, he took the opening position that he stood pat on the original deal and expected Bergen to fulfill its terms and conditions.
Sitting on the periphery of strategy conferences in Goldwyn’s office, I was beginning to lose my professional innocence. I learned that Goldwyn was prepared to double, even triple Bergen’s fee and to improve his billing, build up his part and spot it well, and get Gershwin to write him a number—but. The “but” would involve further commitments, and Goldwyn’s right to sell them to other studios in the event that he had no suitable picture ready on the specified date.
Bergen’s agents and Goldwyn’s carefully briefed representatives met every few days. No progress. The agents must have recognized the weakness of their position. A contract is, after all, a contract. Still, they persevered.
One morning, after listening for half an hour to sentences beginning, “Bergen says…” or “Bergen wants…” or “Bergen won’t…” Goldwyn said, wistfully, “Bergen, Bergen, Bergen, f’Chrissake! All the trouble with him—but it’s the other one—the little one—who’s funny. The dummy. Isn’t that silly?”
Fred Kohlmar dared a joke. “How about the hell with Bergen and just sign the dummy?”
Goldwyn’s look said, “We are not amused.”
One of the meetings on the subject had a truly surrealist atmosphere. Consider the background. The most popular attraction in the world of entertainment was about to make a motion picture debut and be paid $400 a week with an eight-week guarantee.
When the situation had reached its penultimate point, Samuel Goldwyn took over. He always preferred, he told me again and again, to deal with the principal, man-to-man, face-to-face. Even on so miniscule a matter as my own deal with him.
So it was in the Edgar Bergen crisis, except that Goldwyn decided to invite not only Bergen’s agents, but the entire Goldwyn executive staff.
We assembled. Goldwyn sat behind his intimidating desk. Bergen was placed in an armchair facing Goldwyn. The rest of us were ranged about the room like an audience.
The meeting began with a long silence. It did not take much imagination to view the scene as a sort of prizefight or cockfight or chess match. There they were, the two
adversaries, sizing each other up. Here we were, excited by the sense of battle in the air, wondering what the outcome would be. Any bets? What are the odds?
Goldwyn smiled. (A daring, new opening gambit?)
“Mr. Bergen,” he said. “You are a great artist. You know it and I know it and the world knows it.”
“Thank you,” said Bergen, every inch a gentleman.
“And
I
knew it before
anybody
knew it,” said Goldwyn meaningfully.
Bergen glanced at his agents. They conveyed, “Keep still.”
“You know what a great artist needs?” A pause, mysterious. Goldwyn continued. “A great artist needs a great showcase. A great presentation. Like Flo Ziegfeld made for Will Rogers and Bert Williams and Ed Wynn and all the rest of them. And if you ask me—you want my opinion—you’re better than all of them—that’s what I think of you—of your talent—than all of them put together.”
“Well,” said Bergen quietly. “I wouldn’t know about that. But you’re better than Ziegfeld.”
Goldwyn blinked, then blushed, his pink face turning red, redder. He was truly nonplussed. He opened his mouth to speak but produced silence.
As spectators, we could scarcely refrain from applause. Here indeed were two masters. An intrepid opening play had been topped by an audacious response.
“We’re going to make a great picture!” Goldwyn shouted. “All your life you’ll be proud you were in it. I’ll show you a showcase, f’Chrissake.”
“I’ll certainly do my best, Mr. Goldwyn,” said Bergen. “And so will Charlie.”
“Who?” asked Goldwyn.
“Charlie McCarthy,” said someone foolish.
Goldwyn looked blank for a moment. The members of his staff recognized the momentary difficulty. Only yesterday, Sam Marx had suggested that Ben Hecht bring in his erstwhile partner Charlie MacArthur.
Goldwyn recovered. “Oh,” he said. “Charlie MacArthur. The little dummy.”
Then he laughed—his wheezy, keep-it-in, face-crinkling laugh.
We all laughed.
Goldwyn rose and moved around toward Bergen.
“It’s great to have you, Mr. Bergen, in this great picture.”
Bergen rose.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
Was the whole thing over then? A sense of disappointment flooded the room. We wanted to see Grant vs. Lee at Richmond, not at Appomattox. F’Chrissake.
But wait. Bergen looked over at his agents (his seconds?) once more.
Now
he
smiled, and said, “Which is why I hope we can come to some arrangement, Mr. Goldwyn.”
The temperature of the long look they exchanged dropped to zero. Goldwyn returned to his chair. Now. There was to be a joust, after all.
Bergen resumed his seat.
Goldwyn’s blush had faded, and his pink complexion continued to fade toward the opposite end of the spectrum. He was pale.
“We came to an arrangement, Mr. Bergen, last May,” he said.
“Yes,” said Bergen, “but last May was last May. A long time ago. A whole career ago.”
“What do you want?” asked Goldwyn suddenly.
The room trembled. No one had expected this question for an hour.
It was Bergen’s turn to be thrown. He looked over to his team on the sidelines, helplessly appealing. His chief agent nodded.
Bergen looked at Goldwyn in the friendliest way and said, “I think it would be fair if you were to pay me—say—half of what I’m being offered elsewhere. That would seem fair to me and to you. Half.”
Those of us who knew him saw that Goldwyn was deeply offended.
“Offered by who?” he asked.
“Several,” replied the agent mysteriously.
When Goldwyn spoke again, it was in a new voice—even higher than his normally high key. He became an actor playing the role of a foolish, innocent, country plowjockey up against the city boys.
“Several people are making
The Goldwyn Follies
?” he asked, all innocence. “My goodness, we’ll have to look into that. Look into that, somebody.”
“Just a minute, Sam,” said the agent, unwilling to play this footless game. “You know what we’re talking about. Not the assignment. The money. And as long as you’ve brought up the assignment—Edgar hasn’t seen the script or heard a number—he’s taking that on faith—so—”
“Listen,” said Goldwyn. “He’s got nothing on me.
I
haven’t seen a script
either
.”
He laughed his mirthless laugh.
“We all trust you,” said Bergen’s lawyer.
“Good,” said Goldwyn. “I trust me, too. So, if you trust me so much, why don’t you trust me all the way? Stand by your contract—by our deal—and let’s see what happens—how everything comes out—if it comes out right—don’t you trust me to make the proper adjustment at that time? At the proper time?”
A pause.
“No,” said Bergen.
The game was over.
“What did you say?” Goldwyn demanded.
“I said ‘No,’ ” answered Bergen. “No, I don’t trust you to make the proper adjustment at that time.”
Goldwyn was wounded and showed it.
“Very well,” he muttered. “You want to deal arm’s length? We’ll deal arm’s length.”
“Fine,” said Bergen.
“I’d like to ask you a question,” said Goldwyn. “Suppose after we made our deal, you went and flopped and didn’t go over so big. And suppose then I came to you and I said, ‘Well, you fellows seem to have flopped and not go over so good. So I think you should not hold me to my contract and you should come to work for half what we agreed.’ What would you say?”
“That’s not the—” the agent began.
Bergen interrupted. “Just a moment. Let me answer that.”
“Yes,” said Goldwyn. “Let him answer that. So. What would you say?”
“I would say, ‘No,’ ” said Bergen.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Why?”
“Because, Mr. Goldwyn, when you signed me I was
not
a flop. I was already a hit.”
“Call me Sam,” said Goldwyn.
“I’ll call you Sam when we’ve got a deal.”
“We’ve
got
a deal!” yelled Goldwyn. “And don’t you forget it.
None
of you!”
His finger was waving wildly.
Bergen rose and said to his entourage, “Let’s go.”
“Just a moment, Eddie,” said Goldwyn. “Before you go, I want to say something to you.”