CHAPTER ELEVEN
AUTUMN 1957

In September 1957, Paul’s new script assistant, Pat Young, popped her head inside Paul’s door. “Bernard Slade has just come out of George Salverson’s office. Shall I grab him?” Pat was nothing if not efficient. Tall, brown hair and eyes, she was pockmarked from some childhood disease but so charming that everyone liked her. Mary Lou Carter had gone on to another producer.

Paul caught Bernard walking down the long wide office on Front Street. Known for his sense of humour, Bernard was tall, slim, with a prominent nose and sharp brown eyes, and also a reasonable actor. George Salverson, one of the two new script editors, had been trying to get him to write another play. “Bernie, got a second?”

Bernie turned. “What now? You want to ruin another one of my plays?”

Paul grinned. “Bernie, you know that The Prizewinner wasn’t my fault. Give us a second.” They wandered into Paul’s office. “I’m doing Arthur Hailey’s next play, Seeds of Power.”

“I don’t want to hear,” said Bernard.

“No no, it’s important. It’s the first television drama about an atomic power station!”

“So what?”

“Look, Art Hailey’s important, Bernie. Didn’t you know?”

“Of course, everyone knows. So why are you telling me?”

“Because,” Paul said with a flourish, “I want to offer you a part!”

“Why? Ah, you want to hire my wife!” Jill Foster was one of Paul’s favourite actresses, having played in several of his productions, including The Hill. Warm and motherly, she was also good at playing dumb blondes.

Paul wondered how to get out of this one. “As a matter of fact, Bernie, I do want to offer Jill a part.”

“So you can offer us a twofer? Two parts for one salary?”

Paul laughed. “The thing is, Bernie, it’s pretty exciting. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Chalk River?”

“The new power station? Up near Ottawa. Of course.”

“No one has put a nuclear power station in a teleplay before. Art and I thought it up together. Chalk River is leading the world in nuclear power, but we decided to set the plot in India, to avoid controversy. It’s about sabotage, and how atomic power might get out of hand.”

“And you’re going to shoot all this in Studio Four?” Bernard chortled.

“You sound just like Rudi Dorn. In fact, he is doing the sets. But listen, it’s the first of a big new series of four plays that the Bank of Canada is sponsoring to sell Canada Savings Bonds. Sydney got me some extra money, and I went to Ottawa and shot inserts at Chalk River!”

Bernie nodded. “Another chance for a fuck-up.”

“You’re not still thinking about The Prizewinner?”

“What else have I got to think about? It was my first play. I wrote it so that I could play the lead.

“I know, Bernie, I know.” Paul had taken over the production from Ted Kotcheff, who had come down with a serious flu. When the play went to New York, Bernie’s agent, Jay Sanford, sold it like a cracker-jack, though CBC editors only responded after six weeks. But because Sydney had moved fast, he’d slapped it on before the Americans.

“First, I wasn’t cast in it, and then, when it went out on air — no sound for half an hour! Jill and I went nuts fiddling with our sets.”

“I noticed the technicians coming and going, but never I heard what happened till after the show. We got all the sound in the control room, of course.”

“Why the hell didn’t they put up a card saying technical difficulties are temporary? When I phoned later, they told me they couldn’t find the card!” Bernie had to laugh.

“Maybe this role will help; Arthur has quite a reputation after Flight Into Danger. I was in Europe when David Greene did it.”

“I know, I know, everyone raved. I thought it was pretty good. When both pilots come down with food poisoning, Jimmy Doohan takes over — but he’s never piloted a big airplane. Clever. Where is David now, by the way?”

“New York. Doing Studio Ones. You don’t think they’d give this to me if he were here, do you? Now look, I’ve got John Drainie in it, and I persuaded Katherine Blake —”

“Didn’t she go down there with David?”

“No. Remember Charles Jarrott?” Bernie shook his head. “Well, Charles had come over from England at David Greene’s suggestion and stayed with him. Before you knew it, bingo, Kate fell in love with Charles and left David. So now he’s fallen for Eileen Jack, who used to be my script assistant. She’s gone down to New York instead.”

“Ring-around-the-rosy. The Drama Department makes Peyton Place look like kindergarten. So when,” Bernie asked, “does this wondrous show of yours go out?”

“October 3rd.”

When Bernard left, right away Nathan Cohen stood in the doorway. A scathing theatre critic, he was by no means physically attractive: above heavy jowls, his crinkly thinning grey-black hair was combed straight back. “Paul, this is Arthur Hailey.”

In came Art, every inch a gentleman with suit and tie, rather like a car salesman. And in fact, he was still the editor of an automotive magazine. His first play, Flight into Danger, had been such a hit here and in America, he was much sought after. A model writer, he sat and pulled out a yellow pad.

Nathan folded his hands across his ample stomach.

What could Paul say? He would have preferred a one-on-one with the author. But he went over a few slight changes and Arthur went off to polish the first television play ever written about an accident in an atomic power station.

***

In early November, Sydney and Betty Newman threw Ted Kotcheff a farewell party at their Rosedale home, 3 Nesbitt Drive. Most directors came, a few of the prettier script assistants, and some of the better actors. Ted was a large, imposing Bulgarian given to stating his wishes boldly without regard to crew feelings. But to his cast he was gentle and supportive.

“Hi, Ted,” Paul said. “You going nuts again?”

“You mean, leaving for England?”

“Don’t you like it here? I mean, look at the freedom we have.”

“Yes, but I joined CBC in 1952, stage crew first, then Studio Director, then —”

“— You started directing in about 1955.”

“Yep. So now, two years later, time to move on.”

Paul shook his head. “What does Sydney think of that?”

“Oh, he’s all right with it. He has to be,” Ted added with a laugh. “You know, Silvio Narizzano’s over there now.” Paul had been sad to see him go. “And Hank Kaplan, too.”

“I know, they’re all going,” Paul went on. “I spent three years at Oxford and I stayed on afterwards so I have no hankering to go back.”

“My friend Stanley Mann, the writer, is there,” Ted added, “and Mordecai Richler. I’m not married, so what the hell, I thought, get moving.”

“Angie and I always liked your productions, Ted. We make a special point of watching them.”

Ted nodded in appreciation. “What I like here is we all watch each other’s shows. You see, a few months ago Silvio recommended me to London’s ABC. So I got a contract with Armchair Theatre.” Later, Sydney would move to the UK himself to run that series.

“Well, best of luck.”

Their hostess, Betty, came over and Paul thanked her for the party. “We’d do anything for Ted.” She smiled down at her daughter, Deirdre, coming up with hors d’oeuvres in an incongruous party frock. Paul had only seen her as a tomboy, jeans and ragged shirt, ready to climb the nearest tree. Her pretty sister Jenny, however, suited her frock perfectly.

Paul spotted Sheila Hailey, looking a little lost. “Hi Sheila. What’s Arthur up to these days?”

Sheila seemed every inch a Toronto wife: pleasant, cheery, well kept, and full of warmth. “Working on another play about his childhood in England during the war.”

“Is he? Hope I get to do it.”

“Oh yes, if he gets it on, he’ll want you. We loved what you did with Seeds of Power about Chalk River.”

Paul nodded. “Thanks, Sheila.

Toby Robins came over to give Paul a dazzling smile. His heart looped the loop, and he resolved to find another play for her as quickly as possible. She and her husband, Bill Freedman, had a fine large house in Forest Hill, well beyond Paul’s means.

A newcomer to the Drama Department, Gordon Hinch, a former agency producer, was passing out drinks. “Some wine, Paul? Or more gin and tonic?”

“Yes please.” Gordon, short, with black hair and glasses, looked like an accountant. “My golly,” Paul shook his head, “we keep adding personnel all the time. What do we need a Unit Manager for, anyway?”

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.” Gordon grinned as they went to find some finger food on a cabinet Betty used for sewing. Sydney had proudly explained he’d made it himself; he loved working with wood.

“Are we going to have you looking over our shoulders?”

“No no, I’m cloistered in an office, checking facts and figures for Sydney, and then reporting to the ‘Kremlin’” — where network executives worked. Fergus Mutrie, for example, director of all Toronto television, had just met with Paul and upped his salary, which would place him among the highest paid producers of any department. In three short years, he’d gone from three figures to six, just as Angela had demanded. Fergus added that any time Paul wished, he could take off and do other shows, but he’d always have a place in drama — or on Bob Allen’s new Folio, a prestige series of operas, ballets and dramas that Paul hungered for.

***

In November, 1957, they were rehearsing Lost in a Crowd on the fifth floor of the Sumach Street design building, a fairly new — and at last clean — warehouse structure, though its huge round pillars badly interrupted rehearsal space.

“Mind if I say something, Paul?”

“Please do, Vivian.”

Paul had seen Vivian Nathan in Sydney Lumet’s Deaf Heart on Studio One, and brought her from New York. She insisted on rehearsing for her role as the Polish mother in costume: mottled blue apron, dowdy dress, and braids wrapped around to frame her face. Since her arrival, Paul had grown to like her enormously. Warm, kindly, and having played on Broadway, she was a consummate actress. Paul had also cast a stunning young Toby Tarnow, a lead on Howdy Doody and in the movie Anne of Green Gables. She and Jonathan White made an excellent team, Jonathan being blond, Toby with her short, curly brown hair.

“Paul, I love the way you direct us: you leave us free,” said Vivian. “But might it help if I talk to Jonathan about his action?”

“You mean, where he’s standing?”

“No, his ‘action’ in the scene.” They all listened, full of interest.

“You see, an action, well it’s... what you need to ACHIEVE in the scene: your want, your desire, that gives the drive a scene needs.”

Jonathan looked perplexed. “So what would my action here be?”

“In this scene, you want her to marry you, don’t you?” Jonathan nodded. “And Toby, you don’t want to, at least not yet.”

Toby nodded. “So I’m trying to find a way to avoid what he’s going to ask?”

“Yes. And these needs must be foremost. Jack has written this really cleverly, so it’s not obvious, but it’s there underneath...” Jack Kuper, the author, had popped up from the graphics Department below, where he worked.

Paul leapt up. “That’s terrific, Vivian. So they follow that right to the end?”

“Not really. You see, we can divide the scene into what we call ‘beats’.”

“Oh, you mean like the rhythm,” Jonathan asked, “like beating a drum?”

“No, we’re talking about when one action ends and another begins. In other words, the scene may have one beat, or several. In this beat, before I come in and interrupt, Jonathan, you are trying to get Toby to sit down so you can have a proper talk. But Toby knows that when she sits and lets you hold her hands, you’re going to talk seriously about the future.”

“I see that,” Toby agreed.

“So put another way, Jonathan, your action could be to get her to sit down. And your action, Toby, could be to avoid sitting.”

“Terrific!” Paul exclaimed. “Shall we try it again?”

“Another thing...” Vivian went on, “if you don’t mind Paul?”

“No, no, keep talking, Vivian. I guess this is the famous Method Acting we’ve heard about?”

Vivian nodded. “One of the things we often do is improvise. We ad lib, maybe something tangential, but often a key to our emotions. Some actors are better at this than others,” and she threw a quick look at Jack, “then we go back to the script, of course. But in this way, we discover new things about our characters and the scene, or our emotional responses. Though sometimes, I admit, on Studio One, we’ve even improvised on air. But it requires a pretty agile director calling the shots.”

“I bet it does!” Paul grinned. “I’d be ready for that.”

“Let’s not rush ahead,” Vivian cautioned.

“Okay,” Paul broke in, “how about trying this scene with you, Jonathan, saying whatever comes into your head, but trying to get Toby to sit down, and Toby, you using any trick you can, woman’s wiles, anything you like, to avoid it. And we’ll see what happens.”

Toby and Jonathan tried improvising, when Jack leapt up. “This has given me some ideas. I’d like to try altering the scene slightly and bring it in tomorrow. Would that be all right, Paul?”

“Just great — if you wouldn’t mind?” He turned to his actors.

They actors seemed delighted at this turn of events.

As the rehearsals progressed, Vivian kept dropping more pearls of wisdom about Method Acting, whose chief exponent, Lee Strasberg, taught at the Actors Studio in New York, where Vivian was a member. Other Method coaches, Stella Adler and a Group Theatre pioneer Sanford Meisner, all used techniques pioneered by the great Constantin Stanislavski at the Moscow Art Theatre, where he had even worked with Anton Chekhov.

It’s so great learning new processes, Paul thought. One more technique. He’d see how it worked on live television.