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Does luck outweigh talent? In the prewar days F Hugh Herbert was a struggling would-be playwright in New York and anxious to make his mark in films. He persuaded a more influential friend to get him a few introductions in tinseltown. The friend said he could not guarantee to get him work, but if Herbert paid his own fare to Los Angeles, he would see to it that Herbert met Irving Thalberg. On such a promise young Mr Herbert duly took the train and, true to his word, the friend secured him an invitation to a party where Thalberg and his wife, Norma Shearer, were on the guest list. During the course of the evening he got to shake hands with Thalberg and they exchanged perfunctory greetings. And that was that. Herbert had taken a small apartment on the wrong side of the tracks and there sweated out a meagre existance while waiting for the main chance which never came. Down to his last few dollars, he was on the verge of packing up and returning to New York when one night he had an unexpected visit. Answering the doorbell he found himself confronted by none other than the great Thalberg. Both men stared at each other in some amazement, the Herbert recovered sufficiently to ask his visitor to step inside.Hastily kicking a few empty beer bottles under the bed, he offered Thalberg the one decent chair. They sat together and conducted a desultory conversation until Thalberg asked him what he was doing. Herbert had a writer's sure instinct for self-preservation and ad-libbed about a play he was working on. When Thalberg got up to go he said, 'Why don't you come to the studio tomorrow? I'll see if we can find you something.' Then he walked out into the night, leaving Herbert stunned but elated. The next morning he presented himself to the MGM security gate.The policeman on duty checked his list and handed Herbert a pass. 'If you'd like to go to the writers' block, Mr Herbert, I'll have somebody meet you there.' Herbert did as directed and sure enough was welcomed by one of Thalberg's assistants. He was taken to an office where his name was on the door. Inside he found a secretary had been put at his disposal. 'What am I supposed to do?' he asked. 'Just make yourself at home and in due course I'm sure Mr Thalberg will decide what project he's assigning you to.' 'You mean I'm under contract?' 'Absolutely. Mr Thalberg has given instructions for you to be paid a thousand dollars a week for eight weeks.' Herbert could not believe the transformation of his fortunes. But it was real enough. He was on the payroll of MGM, his name was on the door, a desk, typewriter, a ream of paper, pencils and pads, a secretary who made his coffee. He had arrived. He sat there for the first week and spent his time working out ideas against the moment when Thalberg asked to see him. That call did not come, but his first paycheck was handed to him on Friday. He sought out the same assistant. 'Look,' he said, 'don't think I'm complaining, far from it, but I haven't been given anything to do. I want to earn my keep.' 'Don't worry about it. Mr Thalberg's a very busy man, but I'm sure he'll get around to you in time.' The second week came and went, a second pay cheque was there on the dot, but still no word from Mr Thalberg. It wasn't until the middle of an idle third week that he saw the assistant again. 'Good news,' the assistant said, 'Mr Thalberg would like you to think up a treatment based around the itinerant potato workers in Idaho.' Herbert swallowed hard. It wasn't the most thrilling assignment, but who was he to question Mr Thalberg's taste? He immediately applied himself to the task, researching the subject in depth and devising what he believed was a poignant saga with social undertones. At the end of the sixth week he turned in an eighty-page treatment. Every day he rang the assistant to ask what Mr Thalberg's reaction had been and every day he was given the same answer: 'Mr Thalberg hasn't been able to get to it yet.' On the Friday of the eigth week which marked the end of his contract the assistant came to his office. 'Hugh, I've got good news and bad news. Mr Thalberg has decided not to proceed with the Idaho story. That's the bad news. However, he's so pleased with all the hard work you've devoted to it, he wants you to have a bonus. The contract's at an end, but here's a cheque for two extra big ones.' The money helped mask Herberty's disappointment at the fate of his treatment; he walked away with £10,000 for his eight week stint on the hallowed MGM lot, and could now not only afford to move into a decent apartment, but was also able to say that he had written a script for Thalberg. Such a reference was enough to open other doors and he never looked back. Dissolve. Subsequently he became a successful playwright with a string of Broadway hits to his credit. Many years later he was at a swish New York party when he was approached by a middle-aged blonde who gave the impression that in her younger days she had been quite a beauty. They chatted for a few minutes and then she asked him if he had once lived in an apartment between Olympic and Pico in Beverley Hills. Herbert confessed he had. 'Do you remember what number?' Herbert gave the number. 'I lived in the next apartment,' the blonde said, 'In those days I was moonlighting as a fifty-dollar hooker.' She made the admission without embarrassment. 'Let me ask you something else. Did you once have a visit from Irving Thalberg while you were living there?' Yes, as a matter of fact. It changed my whole life.' The blonde nodded. 'Yeah, he told me. He was one of my regulars. That night he knocked on the wrong door by mistake.' |
