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...."