The very next day—that’s how it happened—Sam Spiegel asked if I’d go to California with him to direct a film he was making from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Last Tycoon; Harold Pinter had written the screenplay, Sam boasted. “Is that the film Mike Nichols was going to direct?” I asked. “He’s out of it now,” Sam said quickly. His face was a mask; I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved. I’d heard that Sam had offered the job to still another director, who’d walked away from it. Did that matter? Why should it? I asked Sam a few questions and got up to go. As he gave me Pinter’s screenplay, he said, “You’ll get back to me soon, won’t you?” “Tomorrow,” I said. Which was a mistake. Sam had looked so sincere and affectionate that I’d been accommodating and not given myself time to think carefully. I’d forgotten that even sincerity and affection can be tactics with Sam. Did that matter? No—I wasn’t marrying the man! But I wasn’t eager to work with him. I’d enjoyed his company socially—his parties had it all, and he gave many kinds of parties—but I hadn’t enjoyed working with him when we’d made On the Waterfront. On the other hand, he’d been good on script, and that did matter. Furthermore, this film was going to be made entirely in southern California, where it was warm in the winter. That was the point. He’d provide me with a comfortable house in the sun, high above the smog-line, and Barbara would look after Mother during the day and—No! I’d take Ruby! I’d ask Sam to pay for Ruby. I’d have breakfast and supper with Mother and Ruby every day. But wait! What about the script? Read the damned script, read it carefully, for chrissake! Hell, I didn’t have to read the script. I’d read the book. Twice. With Pinter, it had to be good! Sam had promised we’d go to London together and work with Harold, who was having marital problems and couldn’t come to the U.S.

When I got home, I asked myself what was important. Mother’s health, of course. But hadn’t I sworn, after two unhappy experiences, one of which was The Arrangement, that I would stick to the novel now and never make another film? “Stop,” I said to myself. “Hesitate! Consider! Why are you plunging into this? Give yourself time to think. Remember The Arrangement. It was a catastrophe. You’re talking about a year of your life. Rent Mother a house in Florida, maybe in Tarpon Springs, which is full of Greeks. You can afford that.” But it would be difficult to visit her and watch over her in Florida. That wouldn’t work. Stop. Think!