David Fry wanted to make an epic movie in
the realistic school. The trouble was, his ideas
wouldn't pass the censors--here or anyplace else!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
David Fry was a realist. And also slightly crazy. Maybe that helped in
this buggy business but David Fry overdid it. "I want her nude," he
screamed. "Naked."
"Impossible," I informed him as calmly as I could.
"Naked," he bellowed.
"The Breen office won't allow it and you know it."
"I defy them. Those radicals! It'll be my most realistic picture. A
milestone in film making."
"It won't get the seal of approval."
"So what? I don't need it."
"Every state will ban it."
"Nevada won't ban it."
"Besides, you couldn't get Harriet Desmond to strut around in the raw."
"Oh, no?"
"No."
"Her option comes up in three months."
"So what? You're a director. You have nothing to do with it. That's
Dwight Howard's department. Look, David, I'll have her in a slip or a
bathing suit."
"Ronnie," he said, shaking his head. "I like you. You're a writer but
I like you anyway. I feel that the audience will get the proper impact
only if she's naked."
"It'll be an impact all right."
"You write the script the way I tell you. I don't want to argue
anymore. I like you, Ronnie."
"If you want a sexy script I'll make it sexy without being lewd."
"Sexy? Don't be vulgar. I want a down to earth picture like the French
and Italians make. I want to surpass them with my realism."
"David, what good would it do if I did write the scenario your way?
The scene would never be shot."
"Enough," he screamed. He clutched his chest. "I feel an attack coming
on. Leave me. Get out."
* * * * *
Dwight Howard was chief production man at Silver Studios. He listened
gravely as I spilled my heart out to him.
"He's a great director," Dwight Howard said. He was a large man with
tiny ears, liquid blue eyes, and the cigars he smoked cost a buck a
stogie.
"Sure," I said. "A great goofy director. He's nuts just like all
directors."
He grinned at me. "Directors believe all writers are crazy and writers
believe all directors are crazy."
"You want me to write the script his way? You want that scene shot with
Harriet Desmond nude?"
"No, no. Of course not. The whole idea is too ridiculous for words." He
sighed. "I'll have a talk with him."
David Fry resigned the following day. Tortured and abused actors and
actresses celebrated for three days and three nights. Dwight Howard
didn't have to accept the resignation as Fry was bound to Silver
Studios by an iron clad contract. But a director's work gets sloppy if
his heart isn't in it. So out went David Fry, the realist.
Nobody in Hollywood heard from Fry in seven months. And nobody seemed
to care.
One night, as I came home from a party, I was greeted by the screaming
of the telephone. I held the receiver to my ear. "Maternity hospital,"
I said.
"Ronnie." It was David Fry.
"Oh. Hello. How's everything?"
"Fine. Great. I've got to see you."
"Well...."
"I'll hop right over."
He hung up and I sighed. I built myself a solid drink and got
comfortable.
He showed up twenty minutes later. He was thinner, more nervous than
before.
He flopped on a divan. "You wouldn't believe it," he said.
"Believe what?"
"I want to do a picture. A science picture about a trip to Mars."
"It's been done. And more than once."
"With real Martians?"