It was exciting to work with Irving Berlin again. He had lost none of his energy. He danced into my office, grinned and said, "This is going to be better than the play. Let's go talk to Arthur."

Arthur Freed was in his office, seated behind his desk. He looked up as we entered.

"This is going to be a big one," Freed said. "The studio is behind it a hundred percent."

I asked, "Do you have any casting in mind, Arthur?"

"Judy Garland is going to play Annie, and a talented young actor and singer named Howard Keel is going to play Frank. Louie Calhern is Buffalo Bill. George Sidney is set to direct."

I was going to work with Judy again. And spend time with Lou Calhern.

Arthur Freed said to me, "We're going to fly you to New York and Chicago to see the play."

Ethel Merman was playing Annie in New York and Mary Martin was playing Annie in Chicago.

"When do you want me to leave?"

"Your plane leaves at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Annie Get Your Gun was marvelous entertainment. The book by Herbert and Dorothy Fields was fast and witty and Ethel Merman's performance was energetic, loud and brassy. The next morning, I flew to Chicago, to see Mary Martin's performance.

She had taken a different approach. Her Annie had a shy, poignant sweetness about her. My challenge was to write a character that combined the best elements of both.

Working on a hit like Annie Get Your Gun had its pitfalls. I could not wander too far from the original material and yet it was necessary to open up the show for the screen. Many of the scenes that worked on the stage would not work on film. New scenes had to be created.

The biggest problem was the gap between Act One and Act Two of the play. On the stage, Act One ended with Annie leaving for Europe. Act Two began with her return. The problem was in deciding what to do in the screenplay to bridge the two acts.

I could show a montage of brief scenes of Annie in different countries, or I could concentrate on one country. Should the interval be long or short? These were not my decisions, because shooting those scenes would involve a great deal of money. It was the producer's decision.

I called Arthur Freed's office and made an appointment to see him, to discuss the problem. One hour later, his secretary called to cancel the appointment. I made another appointment for the following day. His secretary called to cancel that. This happened for three consecutive days. On the afternoon of the third day, Sammy Weisbord dropped by my office.

"I just came from Arthur Freed's office. He's very disappointed in you."

I felt a rising panic. "What have I done?"

"Arthur said you're not turning in any pages."

"But I've been calling to make an appointment to discuss - " and I suddenly understood what was happening. Arthur Freed was not interested in talking about the screenplay. He was interested in the musical aspects of the picture - the songs, the dances, the girls. I had a feeling he was unable to visualize how the scenes would play. I remembered how he had reacted to my screenplay of Easter Parade. He had not commented on it until he had heard how the cast felt about it.

Arthur Freed's gift was in selecting the right property and hiring the best people to make it. I took a deep breath. With no guidance, I made my own decisions, and set to work writing the screenplay. It went quickly and, I hoped, smoothly.

I finished the screenplay, turned it in, and held my breath. I wondered who I would hear from first.

The following day, George Sidney, who was directing the picture, came into my office.

"Do you want me to flatter you or do you want the truth?"

My mouth was suddenly dry. "The truth."

George Sidney grinned and said, "I love it! You've done a hell of a job." His eyes were sparkling. "We're going to have a great picture."

After I had gotten comments on my script from everyone in the cast, Arthur Freed said, "You've caught the tone perfectly, Sidney."

Judy recorded the score and production began.

From time to time, when Judy was not shooting, she would come into my office for a chat.

"It's going well, isn't it, Sidney?" She sounded nervous.

"It's going beautifully, Judy."

"It is, isn't it?" she asked.

I took a closer look at her. She seemed clenched and I wondered what she looked like under her makeup.

I began to hear disturbing rumors. Judy was always late and she had not learned her lines. Production was being held up. She would telephone George Sidney at two o'clock in the morning to say she was not sure whether she could make it to the set that day.

Production finally closed down and that same day, the studio announced that Judy Garland was being replaced. I was saddened. I tried to call her when I heard the news, but she had already run off to Europe, devastated.

The part of Annie was offered to Betty Garrett, a talented young actress who had starred in my play Jackpot and who was married to Larry Parks, who had played Jolson in The Jolson Story.

Benny Thau met with Garrett's agent.

Thau said, "We want an option for Betty's next three movies."

Garrett's agent shook his head. "You can only have her for this picture and no options."

So, because of her agent, Betty Garrett lost the role of a lifetime. Betty Hutton was signed to play Annie and the production went forward without any further incidents.

One morning during the shooting, Irving Berlin came into my office and said, "Sidney, why haven't we done a Broadway show together?"

My heart skipped a beat. Writing a musical with Irving Berlin was a virtual guarantee of a successful show. I tried to sound cool. "I would love to write a show with you, Irving."

"Good. I have an idea."

Irving began to pace and tell me about his idea.

I peeked at my watch.

"I hate to interrupt you," I said, "but I have a luncheon date at twelve-thirty and I have to leave now. Let's pick up this discussion when I get back."

"Where are you having lunch?"

"In Beverly Hills, at the Brown Derby."

"I'll ride over there with you."

And Irving Berlin got into my car and rode with me to the restaurant while his chauffeur followed, so that Irving could keep talking about his idea, instead of waiting until I got back from lunch, in an hour. I had never seen such enthusiasm.

That same afternoon, Irving told me he was going to East Los Angeles because a new young singer was going to sing one of his songs. That was Irving Berlin in his sixties, a dynamic genius at the peak of his creativity.

The years were not kind to him. When Irving Berlin was in his nineties, he became paranoid. One day Tommy Tune, the talented Broadway producer and choreographer, telephoned him.

"Irving, I want to do a Broadway musical based on some of your songs."

"No. You can't."

Tommy Tune was surprised. "Why not?"

Irving Berlin said in a whisper, "Too many people are singing my songs."

To my regret, we never did get around to doing that musical together.

One of the many pleasures of writing Annie Get Your Gun was meeting Howard Keel, a tall, rugged leading man with an incredible voice. Howard had to practice shooting skeet for a scene in the movie, so he and I would go to a skeet range and compete with each other.

He always won.

The production went well under George Sidney's direction, and the post-production was finally finished.

When Annie Get Your Gun opened in 1950, the reviews were unanimously ecstatic. The New York critics called it the "Top screen musical of the year."

"Annie Get Your Gun puts movies back on must list."

"Screen's Annie better than stage version."

"Give credit to Berlin and the Fieldses. Runaway hit."

Betty Hutton received the Photoplay Award as the Most Popular Actress and I received the Writers Guild of America Screen Award for my screenplay.

In 1950, Variety published a list of the highest grossing films of all time. On the list were three movies that I had written: The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, Easter Parade, and Annie Get Your Gun.

My periods of depression had stopped and I decided that the psychiatrist had been wrong about my being manic-depressive. I was fine. I continued to date Dona Holloway and looked forward to her company.

One evening at dinner, Dona said, "How would you like to meet Marilyn Monroe?"

"I'd like it," I told her.

She nodded. "I'll set it up."

Marilyn Monroe was a sex symbol, superstar. Her troubled background included an insane mother, growing up in foster homes, a failed marriage, and a battle with alcohol and pills. But she had something that no one could take away from her: talent.

The next day, Dona called me. "You're having dinner with Marilyn Friday night. Pick her up at her apartment."

She gave me the address.

I was looking forward to Friday night. Marilyn Monroe had already had big hits in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Marry a Millionaire, and Monkey Business, with Cary Grant.

The evening did not turn out as I expected. I went to Marilyn's apartment at the appointed time and a woman who was her companion let me in.

"Miss Monroe will be with you in a few minutes. She's getting dressed."

The few minutes turned out to be forty-five minutes.

When Marilyn finally emerged from the bedroom, she looked stunning.

She took my hand and said softly, "I'm happy to meet you, Sidney. I admire your work."

We had dinner at a restaurant in Beverly Hills.

"Tell me about yourself," I said.

She began to talk. To my surprise, the thrust of the conversation was Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, and several other Russian writers. What she was saying seemed so incongruous coming from this beautiful young woman, that it was as though I were having dinner with two different people. I felt she had no real grasp of what she was talking about. It was only later that I learned that she was dating Arthur Miller and Elia Kazan, and that they were her mentors. It was a pleasant evening, but I never called her again.

Shortly after our dinner, she married Arthur Miller.

On an evening in August 1962, I was having dinner with Hy Engelberg, my doctor, at his home. In the middle of dinner, he was called to the telephone. He came back to the table and said, "I have an emergency. I'll be back."

It was almost two hours later before he returned.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "a patient of mine." He hesitated. "Marilyn Monroe. She's dead."

She was thirty-six years old.

I had first met Harry Cohn, the head of production at Columbia Pictures, with Dona Holloway. Cohn had the reputation of being the toughest studio head in Hollywood. He had once bragged, "I don't get ulcers, I give them."

It was reported that there was only one man he feared: Louis B. Mayer. Mayer called Cohn one day and said, "Harry, you're in trouble."

Fearfully, Cohn asked, "What's the problem, L.B.?"

"You have an actor under contract that I need."

Relieved, Cohn said, "Take him, L.B., anyone you want."

During World War II, there was a saying: Any writer at Columbia who quits to join the Army is a coward.

When Harry Cohn was in his early twenties, his best friend was Harry Ruby. The two of them worked together on a streetcar in New York. Harry Cohn was the conductor and Harry Ruby was the ticket-taker. They were inseparable.

Years later, when they were both in Hollywood, they went out on a double date, reminiscing about the old days. Harry Cohn was now running a studio and Harry Ruby was a successful songwriter.

"Streetcars have gone the way of the dinosaurs," Harry Ruby said that evening. "When you and I worked on them, it was fun."

Harry Ruby turned to the girls and nodded toward Cohn. "He was making eighteen dollars a week and I was making twenty."

Harry Cohn's face turned red.

"I was making twenty and you were making eighteen," Harry Cohn snarled.

Harry Ruby never saw Harry Cohn again.

I had seen Harry Cohn at several dinner parties. The first time we met he was saying disparaging things about writers and how lazy they were.

"I make my writers come in at nine o'clock every morning, just like the secretaries."

"If you think that's going to get you good scripts, you should be in another business," I said.

"What the hell do you know about it?"

And we began to argue. The next time I saw him at a party, he sought me out. He enjoyed confrontations. He invited me to lunch.

"Before I hire a producer, Sheldon," Harry Cohn told me, "I always ask his golf score."

"Why should that interest you?"

"If he has a low score, I don't want him. I want producers who are only interested in producing for me." Another time he told me, "Do you know when I hire an expensive director? When he's just had a flop. His price comes down."

One day, when I was in Harry Cohn's office, the voice of the studio manager came over the intercom.

"Harry, I have Donna Reed on the line. Tony's regiment is being sent overseas and Donna wants to be with him in San Francisco until he leaves."

Tony Owen, Donna's husband, was a producer. "She can't go," Cohn said, and turned back to me.

A minute later, the studio manager came on again. "Harry, Donna is very upset. It may be years before she sees her husband again, and we don't need her now."

"The answer is no," Cohn said.

The studio manager came on for the third time.

"Harry, Donna is in tears. She says she's going anyway."

Harry Cohn grinned. "Good. Put her on suspension."

I looked at him, stunned, and wondered what kind of monster I was sitting with.

I read a brilliant novel by George Orwell called 1984, which predicted the future of Russian dictatorships thirty-five years ahead. It was a horrific scenario. I decided it would make a wonderful Broadway play. I sent Orwell a letter asking for the stage rights and he agreed.

I went to Dore Schary and told him that I was going to do 1984. Dore, the liberal, said, "I've read it. It's a good book, but it's anti-Russian. You shouldn't do a play like that."

"Dore, this can be a very important play."

"Why don't you write Orwell and tell him that you don't think it should be anti-Russian - just anti-dictatorship? In other words, it can apply to any country."

I thought it over for a moment. "All right, I'll do that." I wrote to Orwell and he responded:

Dear Mr. Sheldon,

Many thanks for your letter of August 9th. I think your interpretation of the book's political tendency is very close to what I meant. It was based chiefly on communism because that is the dominant form of totalitarianism, but I was trying chiefly to imagine what communism would be like if it were firmly rooted in the English speaking countries, and was no longer a mere extension of the Russian Foreign Office. What I most particularly did not intend was an attack on the British Labour Party, or on a collectivist economy as such. I have no doubt you do not need telling, but I emphasise this because I see that part of the American press has used the book as a sermon on what Socialism in England must lead to.

Dore kept me so busy that, in the end, I had to abandon 1984.