Fandom: Saving Mr. Banks
Description: Don DaGradi's musings about P. L. Travers. Oneshot; may eventually include more chapters featuring different characters' perspectives.
Characters: Don DaGradi, P. L. Travers, Richard M. Sherman, Robert B. Sherman, Walt Disney
Rating: K+
Genre: Drama
Many thanks to Laura and Dr. Riley for beta-reading this story, and to my mom for her constant encouragement and support.
A/N: This story was inspired by Ink Mage's fanfic entitled "Saving Mr. Sherman" on FFN, so if you enjoy this, I would recommend that you check out "Saving Mr. Sherman" as well. And, as always, please leave reviews! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Saving Mr. Banks, Mary Poppins, or any of the characters from those two movies.
Chapter 1: Don
A heavy, brooding silence hung over the dimly lit rehearsal room in the Animation building at Walt Disney Studios, where three men were working late into the night. Don DaGradi, the animator-turned-screenwriter, slouched despondently in a rolling chair with his feet propped up on the end of the long table in the center of the room. He'd spent the last twenty minutes staring with unseeing eyes at the sketchpad in his lap while his mind stewed over the conundrum that was Mrs. P. L. Travers.
He should have seen it coming. He'd been working at Disney Studios long enough to know that most authors jumped at the chance to have their stories make it to the big screen, as Mrs. Travers herself had put it, "in glorious Technicolor, for all the world to see." But she, the author of the Mary Poppins books, was less than thrilled about the opportunity, and had made sure to let them all know it. Don pursed his lips in frustration. He should have known. A woman who, after denying Walt the film rights for twenty years straight, had finally accepted his offer only on the condition that she be given the authority of script approval—he should have known she'd be nothing but trouble. But, despite everything, he had still held out hope that she'd at least turn out to be tolerably friendly and cooperative.
It had taken her all of five minutes to crush his optimism.
"Good morning, Pamela!" he had greeted her as she stepped out of the car that first day.
"It is so discomfiting to hear a perfect stranger use my first name," she'd returned with a coldness that belied the smile on her face. "Mrs. Travers, please."
And things had only gone downhill from there.
Every time they came up with a new idea to show her—a new song, a new sequence, a new concept drawing—she immediately shot it down.
"No, no, no!"
"Goodness me, no!"
"It's all a big mistake; it's all wrong!"
Eventually, this routine had become as predictable as it was painful, like throwing one's body against a stone wall in the pathetically vain hope of knocking it down on the hundred-and-first attempt. Obviously, it hadn't worked. None of their attempts had; on the contrary, everything they did only seemed to make her more upset. A few times—earlier that very day, in fact—she had even left the room in anger. And, try as they might, none of them could ever figure out what it was that had ticked her off, or why, or what they could do to fix it. All they knew was that sheseemed to hate the entire project.
After witnessing the ruthless way she picked apart his script—and it was his script, no matter what she said—Don had quickly concluded that this peevish author could give any Disney villain a run for their money. "Whatever she says, don't let it get to you," Walt had encouraged him after the first day of fire and brimstone. "Remember, you don't work for her; you work for me." But that assurance was small consolation when Don still had the woman's venom to contend with on a daily basis. His mind was exhausted; his nerves were shot; his head had been aching for the past three days . . . yet still he had to push through it and keep swallowing her barbs, because it was the only way this project would ever have any hope of completion.
The last week had been a lot of walking on eggshells for him. As the scriptwriter, he was more or less the head of this whole collaboration period, which made him responsible for keeping things running as smoothly as possible—a difficult task when he himself struggled to conceal his exasperation. But he had to press on, to keep doing and saying whatever it took to placate that woman—no matter the cost, no matter how distasteful—because, as they had discovered the other day, she still had the upper hand in the form of the unsigned rights agreement. And now that they knew about it, she took perverse joy in holding it over their heads as a reminder that if any of them displayed even the slightest hint of "impertinence," she wouldn't hesitate to flounce back across the pond and throw all their hard work to waste.
He remembered what it had felt like to watch that whole showdown between her and Walt. Up until then, he'd been at a loss as to why Walt was letting her walk all over them. It was completely contrary to everything he knew of the man—Walt, who always got what he wanted, who always had the last word. That day when Walt had confronted Mrs. Travers about her demand that the color red not appear in the film, it had been clear that the man was at the end of his rope; and Don had fully expected to see him finally put the petulant author in her place. But then she had pulled out those papers, and the two of them had stared each other down for several long moments . . . and then, much to Don's surprise, Walt had drawn a deep breath and turned to his team in exasperated defeat.
"All right . . . no red in the picture."
With that, he had stormed out of the rehearsal room; and Mrs. Travers had sat there, smugly fanning herself with the papers as she watched him go. Bob Sherman had been the one to finally break the stunned silence.
"He doesn't have the rights."
"Quite," she'd replied with a self-satisfied nod; and Don, from where he stood next to the window, had heaved a sigh and shaken his head hopelessly. It was discouraging enough that Walt couldn't simply win her over as he did everyone else with his trademark Disney charm. But now that they knew the truth, that Mrs. Travers had his hands tied . . . well, what was the point in even trying?
Suddenly he thought of the drawing he'd made the other day—a rough depiction of Mrs. Travers sitting primly in one of the rolling chairs in the rehearsal room, snapping "No! No! No!"—and he smirked wryly. He might have to grin and bear it while in her presence, but at least no one could stop him from venting his frustration on paper. In fact, after the "Spoonful of Sugar" incident—when she had bashed the lyrics to the nursery song and tossed a copy of the script out the window before stalking out of the room, as usual—Don had shown his snarky sketch to Dick and Bob Sherman, and the three of them had shared a hearty laugh. He remembered thinking that in the face of all she had put them through, it hardly made sense to laugh—but then he'd realized that the moment they ceased to find humor in the absurdity of the whole situation would be the moment they might as well give up.
As he glanced up at Dick and Bob where they sat on opposite sides of the table, looking just as dispirited as he felt, Don couldn't help wondering if they hadn't finally reached that moment. There was certainly no laughter in this room now; only a heavy tension that hung palpably in the air—as if Mrs. Travers, though absent in body, were present in spirit, just waiting for something to find fault with.
Don's heart went out to the two songwriters, for he knew that Mrs. Travers's constant criticism had taken just as severe a toll on them as it had on him, if not more so. Dick, whose lively cheerfulness she had rebuffed at every turn until it was all but squelched; and Bob, whose outspoken annoyance at her ornery demands had led her to single him out several times as the object of her fits of temper—neither of them should have had to endure the treatment she dished out. Don hadn't been personally acquainted with the Sherman brothers for very long; but through working on this project, he had developed a sort of fraternal bond with them. Not only did they live up to their reputation as legendary creative geniuses, but they were also good men and great friends. And having to stand by and watch Mrs. Travers unleash her wrath upon them day after day . . . it was just too much.
Of all the insensitive remarks she had made to any of them, the singularly unforgivable one—to him and Dick, anyway—was what she'd said about Bob's leg. It was only the second day of negotiations; and after a long morning of her quibbling about petty details, the older Sherman brother had unwisely dared to voice his annoyance. What had happened next was all too predictable: he and Mrs. Travers had gone head to head; and this time, in his frustration, he had pushed her too far. She'd sent him out of the room like a disobedient child . . . and as he limped out the door and down the hall, she'd asked, "What is wrong with his leg?"
"He got shot," Dick had replied; and for a brief moment, Don had thought she might actually show some sympathy. But instead, she uttered a little scoff.
"Well, that's hardly surprising."
Don's mouth had fallen open in shock; and he hadn't needed to look at Dick to sense the fury radiating off him. But all Mrs. Travers had to say was, "Can I expect any more drama from anyone else?" The heartless witch. How she had ever managed to write a children's book series was beyond him.
He should have come to hate her by now. In the face of such unyielding hostility, it seemed like the only natural response. And yet he still couldn't bring himself to—because, much as he hated to admit it, a part of him (albeit a very small part) sympathized with her. He was, after all, a writer . . . maybe not on the same level as she was; but still, he understood the protectiveness a writer felt for his—or her—stories. And for a woman as set in her ways as Mrs. Travers clearly was, it couldn't be easy to cope with all the modifications that necessarily took place between the page and the screen. Don understood this; and he'd have been more than willing to work with her to make sure she was satisfied, if only she had given him the chance. If only she had given any of them the chance.
But she hadn't. And now, there they all sat, at a loss as to how they could ever hope to pull this off. The current state of things was disheartening, to say the least; in fact, they probably would have given up long ago if Walt weren't so particularly invested in this project. The company had put out many films over the years, but this one . . . this one was special. For it was the fulfillment of a promise that Walt, all those years before, had made to his little daughters: that someday, somehow, he would make their beloved Mary Poppins fly off the pages of her books. And he was clearly determined to keep that promise, at whatever cost to his and his team's sanity.
Don sighed. As fathers, he and the Shermans understood the necessity of keeping promises to one's kids; but still, it seemed almost cruelly unreasonable of Walt to keep them working on a project that was so obviously futile. After all, Walt himself had already battled the author and lost; what made him think their luck with her would be any better?
Just then, Don heard the door to the rehearsal room swing open. Knowing that there was only one person who'd be coming to see them at this hour, he took his feet off the table and sat up a little straighter as Walt strode over, hands on his hips. "Guys, we gotta fix this," he stated.
"Easier said than done," Don muttered.
"How?!" Bob demanded. "How can we fix it when she hates everything we do? What is there to fix, anyway? She's the problem!"
Walt heaved a sigh. "Well . . . I don't know. I'm taking her to Disneyland tomorrow; if nothing else, that'll at least give you guys a day to come up with something."
"You're taking her to Disneyland?" Dick repeated incredulously. "How on earth did you get her to agree to that? She hates that sort of thing."
Walt smirked. "Well, I don't have to get her to agree to it; I'm the one who pays her driver."
"So, what, you're just going to kidnap her?" Don asked sardonically. "That's sure to go over well."
"Hey, you never know," Walt replied. "They say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth; maybe a few hours there will soften her up a little. I might even get her to try out one of the rides."
Don gave a wry chuckle. "Now there's something I'd like to see."
"Mrs. Travers on a Disneyland ride?" Bob snorted. "All due respect, Walt, I doubt even you can pull that off."
Walt's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Really? Care to bet?"
Bob's eyebrows rose in disbelief; but when he saw Walt was serious, he laughed. "All right." He reached into his pocket, drew out a bill, and waved it in the air. "Ten bucks says you can't get that woman on a ride."
Grinning, Walt looked over at the other two men. "Any more takers?"
Dick shrugged. "Well, I hate to take your money, Walt, but since you offered . . ." He pulled two five-dollar bills from his pocket and held them up. "I'm in."
Walt then turned to Don, who regarded him skeptically. "Walt, how come you're suddenly so confident about this?" he asked. "What do you know that we don't?"
Walt drew a deep breath and looked downward, thinking. "I'm not sure yet," he answered after several moments. "But what you guys told me about how she reacted to the bank song, how it seemed like she was close to tears . . . that got me thinking. Maybe this isn't just about her being ornery. Maybe there's something else going on, something we've been missing."
"And you think you can find out what it is?" Dick asked.
"I don't know," Walt admitted. "But if I can, then I think that'll be our best shot at getting through to her."
The three men nodded slowly in assent. Then Don spoke again. "So, what do you want us to do now?"
"For now? Go home." Walt waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Get some sleep. Goodness knows you've earned it."
"And then what?" Bob pressed.
"Well . . ." Walt sighed again and ran his fingers thoughtfully over his moustache. "When you boys came to me earlier, you said Mrs. Travers seemed to be upset specifically about Mr. Banks."
"Right," Dick and Bob agreed. Don nodded silently, thinking back to what had happened earlier that day.
In retrospect, he realized, they should have noticed that something about her was off from the minute she arrived in the rehearsal room that morning. Rather than lighting into them immediately with some biting remark as usual, she had walked in without saying a word, only giving a brief nod to acknowledge their greetings. Then, after setting her purse down on the table, she had meandered over to the window—the very same window she had tossed the script out a few days ago—and stared out, silent and subdued, until Don approached her to ask if they might play her the Sherman brothers' new song: "Fidelity Fiduciary Bank."
Upon receiving her go-ahead, he had proceeded to act out a short segment of the scene leading up to the song—the dialogue between Dawes, Sr., and Michael Banks. Mrs. Travers had given it a rare nod of approval; and Don, encouraged, had then turned his full attention to Dick and Bob's performance. When, a few minutes into the song, he glanced over at Mrs. Travers to catch her reaction, he had found her apparently distracted, with her gaze fixed not on them, but across the room. Don had thought nothing of it in the moment, his attention absorbed in helping act out the song. The men poured all their energy into it, Dick pounding out the tune emphatically while Bob pumped his fist and Don tapped his pencil in time with the beat, until at last they reached the end, and all three belted out the last line together with dramatic flair. It was afterwards, as they were remarking excitedly on how well the song fit with the rest of the scene, that the storm had hit.
"Why did you have to make him so cruel?!" she'd exclaimed, whirling around to face them. "He was not a monster!"
The men, taken aback by this outburst, had stared at her in bewilderment. Don had been the first to regain his power of speech.
"Who are we talking about? I'm confused."
Ignoring his question, she'd asked, "You all have children, yes?" Once they had all replied in the affirmative, she'd continued: "Well, and do those children make letters for you—do they write letters, do they make you drawings? And would you tear up those gifts in front of them?"
They had remained silent, unsure how to respond.
"It's a dreadful thing to do! I don't understand! Why must Father tear up the advertisement his children have made for him, and throw it in the fireplace? Why won't he mend their kite? Why have you made him so unspeakably awful?!"
Throughout her impassioned speech, Don and the Shermans had barely reacted except to blink in astonishment. Her yelling at them was nothing new, but this . . . this they had never seen coming. It wasn't just another temper tantrum; no, this time there was real emotion behind it. Her mask of cold severity had, for once, been stripped away, revealing tears of distress in her eyes; and the men, who had almost ceased to believe she was even capable of feeling anything besides irritation and self-importance, were flabbergasted, with no idea what to say or do.
"If you claim to make them live, why can't he—they—live well? I can't bear it. Please don't. Please don't."
Those were the last words she'd uttered before leaving the room in a fluster—or at least, the last words she had directed at them. As she was walking out, Don had thought he heard her mutter something else—something about having "let him down again" . . . whoever "him" was. Don had called after her; but if she heard him, she ignored him, and neither he nor the other two men had made any attempt to follow her.
She hadn't returned to the rehearsal room for the rest of the day, and they had later heard a rumor that she'd been seen sitting out on the lawn with her driver, making a peculiar little setup with twigs and leaves, or digging holes in the ground and pouring the contents of a paper cup into them, or some strange thing like that. After everything else Don had seen of her, he was hardly surprised. Meanwhile, shortly after she walked out, he and the others had gone to Walt's office to tell him about the incident. Walt had listened with folded arms and a furrowed brow that revealed him to be as perplexed as they were; and once they'd finished recounting everything, he took a deep breath.
"All right," he'd said quietly. "You boys get back to work; I'll see what I can do."
So they had. And now, here they sat, waiting expectantly to hear Walt's next words. After a brief pause, he spoke again. "So, if it's Mr. Banks that's bothering her, then I think that'd be a good place to start."
Suddenly, in a flash of insight, Don recalled what Mrs. Travers had said right after throwing the script out the window the other day.
"You think Mary Poppins has come to save the children, Mr. Disney?"
Walt had merely given her a blank stare; and she had then stalked out of the room in disgust, leaving them all to speculate about what she meant. It wasn't until now that Don finally figured it out.
"It's not the children she comes to save," he murmured to himself as the realization dawned.
"What's that?" Walt asked.
Don met his gaze, a wave of excitement bubbling up within him. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "That's what she meant; that's what we've been missing! Mary Poppins—she's not there to save the children. She's there to save Mr. Banks!"
He looked over at the Sherman brothers, who nodded slowly. "That's why she was so upset earlier," Bob mused aloud.
Don grimaced. "I guess we did make him pretty harsh."
"Well, that is how he came across in the books," Dick reminded him.
"Maybe, but—and, believe me, I never thought I'd say this—I think Mrs. Travers has a point. Mr. Banks might be harsh, but he isn't cruel, not really. And I think we—I made it seem like he is." He sighed. "I hate to think about rewriting the whole script, though."
Bob shook his head. "No, you can't. We've come too far for that. There has to be some other way."
They all fell silent for several moments. Then Dick snapped his fingers. "I've got it!"
"Huh?" Don and Bob looked up at him quizzically.
Dick leaned forward eagerly in his chair. "Mr. Banks is harsh in the beginning. He has to be; otherwise there wouldn't be a story. The only problem with our version is that he never changes. So, really, all we have to do is rewrite the ending!"
"A redemption arc." Don nodded thoughtfully. "I can work with that."
"And we could write a song for it," Dick added, gesturing between himself and his brother. "Something upbeat."
"A happy-ending song," Bob agreed. "I like it."
"What do you think, Walt?" Dick asked.
Walt, who had stood there in silence while the seeds of inspiration germinated, now spoke. "Well, it's an idea." He looked around the table at each of them in turn. "You think you can pull this together in twenty-four hours?"
Don shrugged. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Well, all right then," Walt said. "I'll stop in tomorrow afternoon to see how it's coming along. But for now, you boys should go home and get some rest."
They nodded again; and once he had bid them good night and left, the trio rose from their chairs and made a cursory effort to tidy up the table before grabbing their jackets and heading out of the room. As they strode down the hall, Dick heaved a sigh. "Just five more days, guys," he said. "Then she'll be gone, and we can get back to work."
". . . Following some drinks, a large bottle of aspirin, and a forty-eight-hour nap," Bob amended, eliciting a weary chuckle from the other two.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, until at last they emerged from the building into the breezy cool of the southern California night. There on the front walkway, they paused, and, as if drawn by some ethereal pull, tilted their heads back to gaze up at the heavens. Although the smog and city lights of greater Los Angeles obscured the stars from view, Don found the velvety blackness of the sky to have a soothing effect upon his soul; and for a moment, he allowed himself to be lost in it, forgetting everything else.
At last, Dick broke the spell by inhaling deeply. "Ah . . . the sweet smell of fresh air and freedom."
With a sigh, Don shook himself out of his reverie. "Enjoy it while you can," he remarked wryly. "We're all going to be back here bright and early tomorrow."
"Don't remind me," Dick groaned, then turned to nudge his brother. "Hey, you think our wives are still awake?"
"Well, I told Joyce not to wait up for me . . . but I doubt she listened," Bob replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Dick laughed. "Yeah, it's probably the same with Lizzie." Heaving a sigh, he laid a hand on Bob's shoulder. "And on that note, I'm gonna head home. Tell Joyce and the kids I said hello."
Bob nodded. "Sure thing. You do the same for me, all right?"
"You bet." Dick gave his brother a thump on the back, then turned to their friend. "'Night, Don."
"Goodnight," Don replied. "Drive safe."
"Thanks." With that, the younger Sherman brother headed down the sidewalk towards the lot where his car was parked.
Don drew a deep breath. "Well, we should probably get going too. Goodnight, Bob."
He had just turned to walk away when he felt a hand on his arm. "Don, wait a minute."
"What is it?" he asked, turning back around.
Bob glanced over his shoulder to confirm that his brother was now a good distance away, then leaned in toward Don and lowered his voice. "I didn't want to say anything about this when Dick was around, but . . . what are we going to do if she finds out about the 'Jolly Holiday' sequence?"
"You mean the animation?" Don asked.
Bob nodded.
Don sighed heavily. "Well . . . that's just not going to happen."
"Well, yeah, but . . . you know . . . what if it does?"
"It can't," Don replied firmly. "Because we're not going to let her find out."
They remained silent for several seconds, staring across the street at nothing in particular. Then Bob shook his head. "I don't like doing this," he muttered. "Mrs. Travers might be a pill, but I don't like lying to her."
"Neither do I," Don replied. "But Walt's the one who insisted on the animation; and honestly, at this point, I just want to get this whole thing over with."
"Yeah," Bob agreed. After another few moments, he turned to face Don once more. "Well, you're right; we should head out."
Don nodded. "See you tomorrow."
"You too," Bob replied; and with that, the two men parted ways.
She can't find out, Don thought as he walked to his car. A sick heaviness settled into the pit of his stomach as he realized, not for the first time, that everything they'd had to endure from her up to that point would be nothing compared to the wrath she would unleash upon them if she discovered the hidden truth about that sequence—that, save for Mary, Bert, and the kids, it was entirely animated, in direct violation of the terms of her contract.
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. No, she couldn't find out. She wouldn't find out. And worrying about it would do nothing to help. So, as he got into his car and drove home, he instead tried to focus on what tomorrow would bring. Together, he, Dick, and Bob would somehow manage to come up with a new ending—one that, hopefully, would meet with her approval. A happy ending for Mr. Banks. And then she would be satisfied, and they would finally be able to move forward and bring this project to fruition. Walt would be happy. Mrs. Travers would be . . . well, hopefully the closest thing to happiness that she had the capacity to feel. Anyway, she'd soon be headed back to England, and then everything would return to normal.
In just a few more days, Don would once again feel the relief of coming to work every day without a cloud of dread hanging over him, the pleasure of doing the job he loved without a constant stream of vitriol assaulting him. He'd once again know the joy of going home at a reasonable hour and kissing his wife and having dinner with his family and saying goodnight to his kids. As for Mary Poppins, she would eventually make it from script to screen, like every other Disney movie Don had been involved with . . . and then life would go on, and all this insanity would be nothing but a distant memory.
And everything would work out fine. Because it had to.