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 inthis buggy business but David Fry overdid it. "I want her nude," hescreamed. "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. Amilestone 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'sDwight Howard's department. Look, David, I'll have her in a slip or abathing suit."
"Ronnie," he said, shaking his head. "I like you. You're a writer butI like you anyway. I feel that the audience will get the proper impactonly 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 argueanymore. 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 Frenchand 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 comingon. Leave me. Get out."
Dwight Howard was chief production man at Silver Studios. He listenedgravely as I spilled my heart out to him.
"He's a great director," Dwight Howard said. He was a large man withtiny ears, liquid blue eyes, and the cigars he smoked cost a buck astogie.
"Sure," I said. "A great goofy director. He's nuts just like alldirectors."
He grinned at me. "Directors believe all writers are crazy and writersbelieve all directors are crazy."
"You want me to write the script his way? You want that scene shot withHarriet Desmond nude?"
"No, no. Of course not. The whole idea is too ridiculous for words." Hesighed. "I'll have a talk with him."
David Fry resigned the following day. Tortured and abused actors andactresses celebrated for three days and three nights. Dwight Howarddidn't have to accept the resignation as Fry was bound to SilverStudios by an iron clad contract. But a director's work gets sloppy ifhis heart isn't in it. So out went David Fry, the realist.
Nobody in Hollywood heard from Fry in seven months. And nobody seemedto care.
One night, as I came home from a party, I was greeted by the screamingof 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 gotcomfortable.
He showed up twenty minutes later. He was thinner, more nervous thanbefore.
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.