Palm Springs,
California
May 1935
Irving let It Can’t Happen Here fall onto his lap and relaxed against the pillow with the cactus-pattern cover. The early summer sun tingled his skin. Everybody always mentioned how pale he was. Well, he’d fix that. Nobody spent a long weekend in Palm Springs and came back without a healthy glow.
The flutter of Norma’s fan cooled the side of his face. “You feeling okay?”
“I haven’t felt this good in I can’t remember how long.”
Flutter, flutter. “You do look well.” Flutter, flutter. “Such a relief.” Flutter, flutter.
He cracked open an eye. Now approaching the end of her third trimester, Norma’s distended belly strained against the front of her bathing suit. “Relief?”
“Mutiny is filming and Night at the Opera is about to start, so the hard part is over.”
The advantage in having an actress for a wife was that they could say so much with so little.
Norma pursed her lips like a disapproving minister’s widow as though to say, The hard part is never over. You’ve always got a new mountain to climb, so don’t give me any of your ‘I can relax now’ malarkey.
But it is over. The melancholy, the weariness, the draining inertia I’ve been battling for months—it’s gone. That’s what he wished he could tell her, but he had shared none of his woes. With the baby coming, Norma had enough to contend with. And anyway, it had dissipated now. He wasn’t sure why, and it probably didn’t pay to dig too deeply. He was happy knowing that he wasn’t headed for the nearest pine box any time soon.
“We’re here, aren’t we?” he said. “No lackeys, scripts, long-distance telephone calls, financial reports. Just me, you, and—” he held up his book “—Sinclair Lewis.”
“I’d have thought he wasn’t your cup of tea, politics-wise. Left of center, isn’t he?”
Actually, Irving had no idea what It Can’t Happen Here was about. The words had been hollow curlicues whose meaning bounced along the surface like skipping stones.
Now that Mutiny and Opera were in the works, he was free to turn to other projects. Camille, Pride and Prejudice, Marie Antoinette, Goodbye Mr. Chips—he was determined that they would all make fine pictures. But one story in particular continued to circle his imagination: Romeo and Juliet.
There were a ton of reasons why he should abandon the idea. Shakespeare rarely fared well at the box office. It was too highbrow for Mr. and Mrs. Middle America. Impossible to film on the cheap. Norma was too resistant. Mayer would hate the idea.
But time and again, his instinct urged him to push ahead anyway. If he couldn’t trust his instincts, what use was he?
But he had to pitch it to the right people in the right order. And with the Palm Springs sun warming his bones and gilding his skin, the two of them alone and more relaxed than they’d been in a long, long while, now was the time.
“There is something I want to talk over with you.”
Norma’s fan halted its fluttering. “I’ve been wondering when you’d bring it up.”
He deposited It Can’t Happen Here onto the glass-topped patio table between them. “Have you, indeed?”
“It’s been on your mind, hasn’t it?”
“Always.”
“I’d tell you to stop obsessing over it, but advice like that goes in one ear and out the other.”
He sat up and planted his feet on the mottled concrete. “For the record, it makes three laps before it flies out.”
The fan started up again. “That many, huh?” Flutter, flutter. “Goodness gracious, I am flattered.” Flutter, flutter. “So now, especially with another child coming, it’s time to drop any lingering doubts you may have been clinging to and press on.”
This was going better than Irving had dared to hope. “I agree.”
“Because, you know, I’ve been terribly worried.” Flutter, flutter.
“I’m positive that it’ll all work out fine.”
“While you were pretending to read your book, I was making a list. I’ve narrowed it down to either Sardi’s, because I know you enjoy their English lamb chop with kidney, or perhaps Mama Weiss on Rodeo Drive. Her goulash cannot be bettered. Then again, the Vine Street Brown Derby has that private room. They might even do a special menu for us, in which case—” The fan froze when she spotted the confusion on his face.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your thirty-sixth birthday party. What have you been talking about?”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Norma ditched the fan; it clattered against the concrete.
“Hear me out.”
“I will not.” Her bulging belly impeded any attempt to cross her arms so she gripped the sides of her wicker chaise instead. “Playing Amanda in Private Lives was one thing, but Shakespeare is a whole other matter.”
“But why? You’ve proven yourself—”
“My balcony scene in Hollywood Revue of 1929 is probably the least-remembered segment. And I’m fine with that. And besides, I had Jack to go through that ordeal with. I can’t even imagine who you’re planning on sticking me with. Mickey Rooney? Or Freddie Bartholomew? He’s, what, thirteen? The perfect age, wouldn’t you say?”
“What about Leslie Howard?”
Norma frowned. But it wasn’t a stop-talking-about-this frown. More of an at-least-he’s-an-appropriate-age mope.
“And how do you feel about George Cukor directing you? Not only is he the best director of women around, but he started his career in the theater.” Irving picked up the fan and handed it to his wife. “William Daniels to photograph you, Adrian to costume you, and Margaret Carrington as your drama coach. She has a long history of appearing on the British stage.” He softened his tone a notch or two. “Just because Juliet is written as thirteen doesn’t mean you’ll play it that way. Shakespeare’s been out of copyright for four hundred years; we can do whatever we like.”
Flutter, flutter. “I see.”
Irving knew when to make his exit. He returned to his book and pretended to read the meaningless squiggles once more.
Leslie’s work in Of Human Bondage had deeply impressed Irving and now he could envisage no one else as Romeo. He was sure Cukor would enjoy the challenge of bringing Shakespeare to the screen, but if he vacillated, Irving planned to dangle Camille and Garbo in front of him. Romeo and Juliet would be an easier sell once the key personnel were in place.
His eyes wandered off the page and onto the turret above the El Mirador’s foyer. Behind it, the San Jacinto Mountains rose from the desert floor. He’d been feeling so gosh-darned full of beans lately, so confident of the future, and so sure that this Romeo and Juliet idea of his was a winner that he couldn’t stop himself from talking shop on their mini vacation before the baby came. He’d make it up to her later. Harry Winston was bound to have a dazzling bauble or two. She always looked so gorgeous in green. Perhaps something with emeralds.
“Darling,” Norma said.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“My water broke.”
“WHAT?” Irving jolted out of his chair. “I noticed the local hospital as we were driving into town.”
Norma started to gather her belongings into a cloth bag. “If you think anybody but my gynecologist will be delivering this baby, you need to think again.”
“But he’s four hours away.”
“Which is why you’ll load everything into the car while I call Mother and tell her to meet me at Dr. Mason’s office.”
A couple of times on the drive out of Los Angeles, they had been the sole motorists on the road. It had seemed romantic, as though they were the only people in the world. But now the thought of that same drive left Irving jittery. A hundred and twenty miles of empty desert with nobody to flag down for help.
He grasped her elbow and guided her toward their room. “I only suggested this getaway because you’re not due for another two weeks. If—if I’d known—that—that even the slightest possibility you—oh, God. Did the stress of playing Juliet bring it on? Because if it did, I shall hate myself—”
“Irving!” Norma snapped at him. “I’m about to squeeze a human being out of my body, and that’s all there is to it. Once the contractions start, I’ll be in awful pain and very distracted. I need you to drive me back to L.A. calmly and smoothly. Can you do that?”
He opened the hotel door and let her waddle inside. “Make your call and leave the rest to me.”
Dr. Verne Mason pulled the binaurals of his stethoscope from his ears. California doctors usually sported deep golf tans, but this fellow looked like he hadn’t seen direct sun since the Armistice was declared.
“Well, Doctor?” Norma’s mother asked. “How much longer?”
“It’ll be hours yet.”
“Are you saying this was all a false alarm?” Irving demanded. “We were in Palm Springs when her water broke. I drove back as carefully as—”
Norma threw him a stern look.
“I must be sure before I send her over to the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital,” the doctor said. “There’s nothing you can do here. Better that you go someplace where you’re useful.”
“You want me to leave?”
Norma reached for him. “Darling, the baby might come in two hours or thirty-two. Loitering around here, wringing your hands like an old washerwoman, is a waste of your time.”
In other words: You’re going to drive us nuts, so scram, mister.
Irving felt like a fourth wheel on Junior’s tricycle. He scooped up his Panama hat. “If you say so.”
“Doctor’s orders,” Norma said.
“I’ll be at the office.”
“I assumed you would.”
“And if I’m not there, I’ll be home. Or en route.” He kissed her cheek. It was pink as a grapefruit but slick to the touch. “I’ll check in as often as I can.”
“You’d better.”
He bid goodbye to Norma’s mother, Edith, and her sister, Athole, and escaped into the corridor.
Ida Koverman was sorting through publicity photos of Jean and Clark in China Seas when Irving appeared.
“Is he in?” he asked.
“Yes, and Mr. Schenck is with him.”
“Thank you, Miss Koverman.”
“Good luck, Mr. Thalberg.”
It was an odd salutation, but Irving didn’t have the time to query it. When Irving walked into Mayer’s office, he and Nick Schenck were standing in front of various-sized layouts—billboards, newspaper ads, lobby cards—for Metro’s upcoming Anna Karenina. Irving had been stung when Dave Selznick had added it to his roster. Especially seeing as how he’d nabbed Garbo for the title role. Still, Irving had Camille in his back pocket.
Mayer said, “I thought you were in Palm Springs.”
“We were, but Norma went into labor.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“They shooed me away until it’s time to pass around the cigars.”
Mayer flicked a wrist over the advertising layouts. “I don’t have all day. What do you need?”
With Norma now open to the idea of Romeo and Juliet, he felt lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ve got a project I want to do.”
“Just one?”
“This one’s special.”
“Aren’t they all?”
Mayer was rarely in a receptive mood these days, at least not as far as Irving’s pitches were concerned. Selznick-in-law, on the other hand, was a whole different game of pinochle.
“I’d like to do Romeo and Juliet.”
The three seconds of stony silence that followed felt like three hours.
“You’ve got to be joking.” Mayer let out a sound that started out as a groan and ended up a snort. “It’s the damnedest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s the greatest love story ever told. It’s a work of art.”
“God help me, another prestige picture.”
Irving pointed to Mayer’s desk. “And what do you call Anna Karenina?”
“With Garbo starring, I call it guaranteed box office.”
“And I want Norma to star in Romeo and Juliet.”
Schenck moaned like a rabid coyote. “A mother of two? As Juliet?”
“In my version, they’re purely lovers. Not a couple of love-struck teenagers.”
“And who’s your Romeo? C. Aubrey Smith?”
“Leslie Howard.”
“Shakespeare doesn’t sell. Never has, never will.”
“You’ll change your mind when Warners bring out A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a few months.”
“No, I won’t,” Mayer snapped. “People hear ‘Shakespeare’ and they run a mile. What I need is an answer to Shirley Temple. Bright Eyes cost Fox less than two hundred grand and it doubled their money. Hell, that song about the good ship Lollipop must’ve brought in fifty thousand alone. You plan on putting a ditty like that in your Romeo and fucking Juliet?”
Irving had only one card left to play. “My contract calls for one picture a year that doesn’t require executive approval. I’m invoking that clause now.”
He had every right to make the claim, and these two knew it.
“Do you have a budget?” Mayer asked. Before Irving could reply, he added, “Let me point out that your Mutiny on the Bounty is about to reach two million and you don’t even have a love story for the women in the audience.”
“I’ve calculated a rough estimation.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
Mayer whistled as though Irving had said ‘Eighty million.’
“You know, L.B.,” Schenck said, his unblinking eyes trained on Irving, “at that price, it’ll be cheaper than Mutiny, or A Night at the Opera, or China Seas, or Goodbye Mr. Chips.”
“You’re not giving him the go-ahead, are you?”
“He’s already pointed out that he doesn’t need it.”
Irving’s heart gave a little lurch. The passage of any picture through the byzantine path of studio filmmaking was vastly easier with the cooperation of senior management.
“Okay,” Schenck said. “Go ahead.”
Mayer jabbed a finger in the air. “I absolutely refuse to authorize one single, solitary red cent more than eight hundred grand.”
“You won’t need to.”
Mayer grunted his reply, but Irving was already halfway out the door. When he returned to his desk, he called Dr. Mason’s office.
“Everything’s fine,” the nurse told him. “The doctor has sent Norma home. She wasn’t going into labor; it was just her body preparing for birth.”
It was only three o’clock. He asked Goldie to tell Slickum to bring the car around.
George Cukor’s temporary office on the RKO lot wasn’t terribly big. Nor was it the least bit organized. Papers and fabrics and artwork littered both his tiny desk and the circular wooden coffee table jammed into a corner. When he spotted Irving in the doorway, Homburg in hand, he didn’t look surprised so much as grateful.
“A familiar face!” He pushed a pile of memorandums off his visitor’s chair. “Thank god.”
“How’s Sylvia Scarlett going?” Irving asked.
“Who cares when I’ve got this?” George picked up a headshot of an unusually striking chap with a deep dimple in his chin.
“Isn’t that the guy Mae West cast opposite her in She Done Him Wrong?”
“Cary Grant, yes.”
“He certainly has a special something.”
“Why do you think I fought to get him?”
George’s voice trembled with resignation, and his clothes, Irving now noticed, hung more loosely. Irving had learned to gauge how well a George Cukor picture was progressing by the girth of the man’s waistline.
“You don’t sound too confident.”
“How confident would you be when you’ve got Kate spending most of the picture dressed as a boy?”
In theory, George Cukor directing Katharine Hepburn was a bankable pairing, but Sylvia Scarlett sounded to Irving like a disaster in the making. “Sometimes you have to make a bold move. That’s how we push the limits of filmmaking and storytelling.”
George tossed Grant’s photograph next to his roast beef sandwich and half-eaten kosher pickle. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It must be important if you’ve taken time out of your busy, busy day.” Irving went to launch into his speech, but George cut him off. “Sweet Jesus! Please tell me you’ve got Camille on the boiler and that you’re offering Garbo up to me on a platter. I’m dying to work with that woman.”
Irving should have known that the walls of movie studios were too porous to keep anything confidential. He adjusted his pitch.
“I’ve come to offer you a two-for-one.”
George grimaced. “So Camille . . .?”
“Is the second project.”
“For a minute there I thought I’d misread all the cues.” He ran both hands over his thinning hair. “In that case, yes. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“But first we need to talk about Romeo and Juliet.”
George’s face-splitting grin vanished. “As in Shakespeare?”
“As in William.”
“Starring who?”
“Fingers crossed it’ll be Norma Shearer and Leslie Howard.”
Irving braced himself for the avalanche of skepticism.
It didn’t come.
Instead, George nodded his head as he mulled over the concept.
“Fingers crossed, huh? Norma hasn’t agreed, then?”
“Not yet. She’s rather preoccupied right now.”
“Ah! The baby. Let’s wait until she gets over the birth. Would a month be sufficient?”
The absence of a ‘no’ meant a ‘yes.’ “That ought to do it.”
Irving sank into the doughy-soft comfort of the Cadillac’s back seat as Slickum drove out of the RKO lot. The lights along Melrose Avenue faded away as Irving let the rocking of the car lull him into a semi-conscious torpor.
A balcony sharpens into view, encased in ivy and punctuated with blood-red flowers. Norma is dressed in white, pearls studding her tunic. She has one hand on a baroque mahogany balustrade; the other is reaching outward. Below her stands Leslie Howard in a burgundy cape, richly embroidered with gold thread. He’s wearing a cap of matching felt; a tassel falls to one side. He raises his hands toward her. “But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?”
Irving smiled for the first time that day and let himself fall into the Sandman’s open arms.