When at last the curtain went up on the finished film, there were cute opening credits in keeping with the light comedic touch. It began with a panorama of the Griffith Observatory and a young guide showing a group of eager schoolchildren around. (An odd echo of the tense and intense Rebel Without a Cause.) Fly Me to the Moon was a comedy, and people laughed. The film was supported with a light, unmemorable score by Adolph Deutsch, an old friend of Leon’s. Clever editing obscured some of the difficulties I had seen in the early version. Max’s rewrites had considerably brightened the comedy, and I had to admit that Leon’s addition of the ending scene with Maisie in an evening gown (and handsome Jonathan no longer looking frumpy) was a definite plus. Even Denise’s inability to render scientific dialogue with conviction had about it a sort of charm, and she certainly knew how to flirt with the camera. This audience was ready to love her.

When the film was over, the applause was thunderous, and Leon stood up, turned around, and gestured with one hand to the lovely Denise Dell, still swathed in her white chinchilla, and with the other to the smoothly handsome Jonathan Moore. They both rose and took many bows to ongoing adulation.

We all moved into the main lobby, where a chamber orchestra played an up-tempo “Fly Me to the Moon” followed by a lot of other peppy standards. Champagne bubbled and caviar gleamed. Denise and Jonathan, side by side, collected praise, bestowed smiles, and held hands in victory while photographers snapped innumerable pictures. Leon and Elsie stood at their sides, looking, I must say, like the proud parents of high school graduates.

Irene, Gordon, and I moved to the edges of the crowd. I said, “I have to admit the movie was funny.”

“Yes, but what were they laughing at?” Irene asked. “The wit, or Denise’s delivery?”

“It’s a comedy,” said Gordon sourly.

“When do you think they’ll publicly announce about the baby?” I said in a low voice.

“It’ll be a while. Denise is still raging mad at being knocked up.”

Gordon frowned. “Must you be so vulgar about it?”

Irene laughed her rippling laugh. “I have four kids. I have a right to be vulgar about it.”