Finally, it was time to begin production.
We had stayed as faithful as we could to Buster Keaton’s life, but to increase the drama, we had taken some liberties. I showed Buster the screenplay and when he finished reading it, I said, “Do you have any problems with it?”
“Nope.”
That was the full extent of our conversation.
The sets were built and production began.
The shoot was going well. The cast was wonderful. Besides Donald, we had Peter Lorre, Rhonda Fleming, Ann Blyth, Jackie Coogan, and Richard Anderson. The chemistry was good.
Bob and I had written a scene in which an old-time director appears. We had not cast him yet. The assistant director came up to me. “Would you like to have the old man play the part?”
I was puzzled. “What old man?”
“Mr. DeMille.”
Cecil B. DeMille was, without question, one of the most important directors in Hollywood. Among many others, his recent pictures had included Samson and Delilah, The Greatest Show on Earth, and The Ten Commandments.
He was a legend and there were dozens of stories about him floating around town. He was known to be ruthless and demanding. He terrorized actors. There was a story that while he was shooting a scene in one of his epics, standing high on a platform, looking down at the hundreds of extras, he started to explain what he wanted, and saw two young women extras talking. He stopped. “You two,” he called, “step up.”
The two women looked at each other in horror.
“Us?”
“Yes, you. Step forward.”
Nervously, they took a few steps forward.
“Now,” DeMille thundered, “since you obviously think that what you were saying was more important than what I was saying, I think everyone should hear it.”
The women were embarrassed and terrified. “Mr. DeMille—we weren’t saying anything.”
“Yes, you were. I want everyone to hear what you were saying.”
One of the girls spoke up, and said defiantly, “All right. I was saying, ‘When is that son of a bitch going to call lunch?’”
There was a shocked silence throughout the set.
DeMille stared at her for a long moment and then said, “Lunch.”
“You’re mad,” I said to my assistant director. “DeMille is not going to play this part. It’s four lines.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“Sure.” I knew there was no chance.
Late that afternoon, the assistant director came to me. “We’re shooting the scene tomorrow. He’ll be here.”
I was stunned. “He’s going to do it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to direct Cecil B. DeMille?”
“That’s right.”
The following day, I was shooting a master shot with Donald and Ann Blyth. When I finished the shot, we were going to go in for a close angle. My assistant director came up to me.
“Mr. DeMille is on his way to the set. Let’s move to the other side of the stage where we’re going to do his scene.”
“I can’t do that now,” I told him. “I have a close-up to get first.”
He looked at me for a moment. “Mr. DeMille is on his way to the set. I suggest we move over to where he’s going to do his scene.”
I got the message. “We’re moving,” I called out.
A few minutes later, Cecil B. DeMille walked in with his entourage. He came up to me and held out his hand.
“I’m Cecil DeMille.”
He was taller than I had expected, broader than I had expected, and had more charisma than I had expected.
“I’m Sidney Sheldon.”
“If you’ll show me what to do—”
I was going to show Cecil B. DeMille what to do? “Yes, sir. It’s about—”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve learned my lines.”
“Good.”
I set the scene up and said, “All right. Camera . . . Action.”
The scene was finished but I felt it could be improved. How do you tell Cecil B. DeMille it wasn’t good enough?
He turned to me. “Would you like me to do the scene again?”
I nodded gratefully. “That would be great.”
“Why don’t I take off my jacket?”
“Good idea.”
“And I’ll be a little more forceful.”
“Good idea.”
We shot it again and it was perfect. There was one thing I was unsure of, though: Had I directed Cecil B. DeMille or had Cecil B. DeMille directed me?
The stunts that Buster Keaton had created for his silent movies were incredible. One in particular seemed absolutely impossible. The scene started with Buster running along a wooden fence, being chased by the police. Standing against the fence, with her back to it, was a rather stout woman, wearing a very full skirt. Buster stopped in front of her, saw the policemen closing in on him, and dived through the woman’s legs to the back of the fence. The woman instantly moved away, revealing that the fence was solid.
It was a fantastic effect. “How the hell did you ever do that?” I asked.
Buster almost smiled. “I’ll show you.”
The secret was simple when you knew it. Directly behind the woman, three of the fence panels were on hinges that enabled the panels to swing backward, away from the audience, at a forty-five-degree angle. As Buster reached the woman, two crew members in back of the fence quickly raised the panels, which were hidden from audience view by the woman’s skirt, thus making an opening in the fence behind her. Buster simply dove under her skirt and scurried through the opening in the fence. Once he was through, the men hurriedly replaced the panels, thereby closing the fence behind the woman. She quickly walked away, revealing to the audience a fence that was completely intact, and Buster had disappeared. This was all accomplished in a split second and was quite fantastic when done correctly.