By Myself and Then Some (64 page)

J
oe Hyams was writing a
book about Bogie. He wanted my blessing – wanted me to write an introduction. Knowing of Joe’s attachment to Bogie, I agreed. The Bogie cult had begun in Harvard’s Brattle Theatre early that year. They still have Bogart festivals, and the collegians of the day pack the house to see their hero. It was extraordinary that Bogie transcended generations, that the young could identify with him, recognize something in him that they admired and wanted to emulate.

I began to be asked my opinion of it. I had mixed emotions – I was very proud, thought it quite incredible that Bogie had been singled out above other movie stars as a folk hero for students. He wouldn’t have believed it. But I felt awkward because of Jason. To be constantly talking of a Bogie who had been reborn made his presence loom large again. So I would try to bring Jason into the conversation, referring to his brilliance as an actor, making an effort not to deny Bogie but to put Jason in a different high place. It wasn’t easy and I never quite achieved it, but I tried.

Jason had enough problems of his own – and we had enough together – not to need this extra added attraction. Yet there were Steve and Leslie, and I wanted them to feel pride in Bogie, to see young men and women, their seniors by not too many years, adore and admire their father. I, of course, didn’t realize at once how tough it was to be Steve – to be Bogart’s son. ‘Was he really your father? What was he like? Did he really talk the way he did on the screen? Did he have a gun?’ Steve felt isolated in a way – what kid wouldn’t? – singled out for
reasons of his parentage, self-conscious. I’m sure that more than once he wanted to change his name to Smith or Jones.

Peter Witt called from New York. David Merrick had a play he wanted to send me, to go into rehearsal in October. Jason was going to do
The Devils
with Anne Bancroft, starting in September, and I’d have a month alone at the beach with my baby. I read the play –
Cactus Flower
, a French comedy with Abe Burrows adapting and directing – and agreed to do it. It had been over five years since
Goodbye Charlie
, time to try the stage again. I wanted to sign for a year, Merrick wanted two. John Frankenheimer told me to keep myself free to do his next film – he had a good part for me in it – so I agreed to two years in the play, in return for which Merrick agreed to give me time out for the movie. I was still a believer.

On July 14th, early in the afternoon while I was heading home along the Pacific Coast Highway, sun blazing, the radio blaring, an announcement suddenly came over the air – Adlai Stevenson had dropped dead on a London street. I slammed on the brakes, almost hitting a few cars, took a deep breath, and pulled over to the side. Oh, no, not Adlai. Tears rushed to my eyes as I sat trying to absorb the news. Poor Adlai – never fulfilled, not appreciated enough, so much frustration, so much he wanted to do. Only sixty-five – yet it was quick, thank God for that. He’d been walking in Grosvenor Square with Marietta Tree – poor Marietta, what a terrible thing to witness. He was being flown home for a Washington funeral. A little late, I thought, to pay that kind of homage to him. I wanted to go to Washington. I felt a great emptiness again – not to have him to look forward to, a funny postcard, those eyes, that wit. That friendship. Too many losses – too many irreplaceables. No one I ever loved, it seemed, had had his full share of life.

I called Art Buchwald in Washington to ask him for details. Did he know where Arthur Schlesinger was? I received a wire from Bill Blair, I think, asking me to come. Arthur called, inviting me to stay the night at his house. Jason understood the state I was in. When I got to Arthur’s house in Washington late at night, I found a note from him directing me to a room. Marietta and Jane Gunther were also there. Funny – three women who loved Adlai, who each had her own special relationship with him, all there. He had an uncanny knack for keeping all of us, and more, dangling – happy for anything he threw our way.
None of us had ever discussed our places in his life. Next morning we all hugged each other. We shared grief, the same grief. We sat around the table having coffee, talking of isolated experiences we’d had with Adlai – quoting conversations – each trying to reinforce her own importance. I thought to myself, ‘I know things they don’t know – I’ve been places with him they haven’t been, shared times they haven’t. I was more special than they know.’ And they were clearly thinking those same thoughts. Women are a joke! (To say nothing of men!)

All I knew as I sat in the Capitol with the guard of honor surrounding his casket – as I looked at Buffie, who had lost the most treasured person in her life; as I looked at young Adlai, at Borden, at John Fell, at President and Mrs Johnson, Vice President and Mrs Humphrey, the Senate and the House – was that I had lost the last of three men who had changed my life. Bogie, Charlie, and Adlai – the three men who had contributed most to my growth. There would be no others like them to love, no others to bring about radical change in what and how I felt, saw, and thought. But each had left me with such richness! I would refer to them – each of them – for the rest of my life.

Jason was in rehearsal when we got back to New York. Steve returned to Milton, having spent his first working summer in the Trancas market; Leslie went back to the Lycée, and Sam to Central Park. Abe Burrows and I started to meet on
Cactus Flower –
casting, wardrobe. The first day of rehearsal came. The company was good. We had a new actor, Joe Campanella, who hadn’t played a lead on Broadway before – no comedy as far as I knew. It was Merrick’s theory that casting Joe would either work marvelously or not at all; that was the only chance he was taking with the play. A new girl named Brenda Vaccaro played the second part; Burt Brinckerhoff, the second man; Robert Moore in a supporting role. All good actors. I was my usual spastic self, but was relishing it. I felt I had value for the play and was wanted by the producer and director, not as though they were doing me a favor the way I always felt in pictures. The play took over my life as plays always do – learning lines, wardrobe fittings (I’d talked Norman Norell into doing my clothes, his first in theatre – I’d come a long way since Loehmann’s). I managed to catch occasional glimpses of Leslie and Sam – it’s really impossible to be anything but an actress when in rehearsal, but I wouldn’t stop trying. I was used to that torn
feeling. Our first out-of-town stop was to be Washington, D.C., then Philadelphia for two weeks. Not too bad and not too far away.

Jason was going to be in Boston with
The Devils
while I was still rehearsing in New York, and he’d open in New York when I was in Philadelphia. My head was into my work and my own life. They would come first now, and we’d see what the future would bring. I was making no plans of any kind, and I’d absolutely decided it was up to him which way our marriage would go – I wouldn’t work against him, but I needed tangible evidence that his effort was real. I’d told him this plainly and I meant it for the first time – I wanted us to stay together, but on a different basis. It was up to him now. Ridiculous to give him ultimatums, when logic or reason had no bearing on the case. I only knew I’d tried everything I was capable of trying, and had finally reached a point where emotionally I had had enough, where there were no more threats – or compromises – to be made. A plateau. I at last had that strength – the positive work atmosphere obviously added to it, making me feel part of something again and cared about.

So I left for Washington, knowing the play was bound to succeed. I was nervous, but on opening night everyone’s nervous. Ours went well, except that I knew there was a lack in my big scene with Joe. But the audience laughed a lot, and the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause. I was sitting in my dressing room about to remove my makeup when David Merrick walked in and said, ‘You were great, but I’m going to replace Campanella.’ David didn’t talk to Joe. I felt sorry for him – one performance was no test, yet I suspected David was right. Joe had been miscast. It was fascinating to see a producer act so quickly – one of his values, I suppose; that’s what made him good. No indecision. His reputation with actors was negative, he didn’t like them, was impossible to get along with – yet he and I did get along. There was mutual respect. I liked knowing where I stood with someone; he liked pros. No one in the theatre could believe I liked him. ‘Just you wait,’ they said.

A couple of nights after the opening I was leaving my hotel for the theatre, stopped in the dining room to see if Abe was there, and found him and David sitting there with Barry Nelson, a good actor, expert in comedy, who’d come down to see the show. He liked it, and said he would take over from Joe. He expected billing with me over the title
and I readily agreed. I’d been solo before, but I didn’t care. Merrick would not take my photograph off the
Playbill
cover, though, to make it the two of us; he had definite ideas about everything.

In the theatre when an actor is replaced, the whole company becomes paranoid. Who’s next? Everyone was on his toes – best behavior. But we were enjoying the rehearsals because Barry had a true comic sense – what he did affected what we did, and it was all for the better. But grueling. Out-of-town tryouts are designed to kill actors – rehearsal all day, play at night, not enough sleep, brain working overtime.

One night after the show Abe took me to supper. ‘I don’t know how to say this – it’s kind of awkward – but a man called William Perske called. He said he was your father.’ I must have paled. The bad penny, and always at the wrong time – though I knew there’d never be a right time. ‘What did he want? Why did he call you?’ I couldn’t figure that one out. ‘That’s what I didn’t understand. He wanted twelve seats to the show. I’ll see that he gets them if that’s what you want, but I thought it was a strange call and I didn’t want to do anything without checking with you.’ ‘I appreciate that, Abe. I tell you, I haven’t seen him since I was eight years old! He had a hell of a nerve calling you – and twelve seats is ridiculous!’ I could just hear him laying it on Abe. How dare he! I was furious and embarrassed – bad enough he had given interviews those many years ago, but now to involve people I was working with! ‘You don’t have to do a damn thing – I don’t care if he comes or not – it’s up to him.’ And I resented the fact that, deep down, he felt he deserved something. Just because he was my father – an accident. He’d contributed nothing to my life except anxiety. Why did I feel obligated in some way?

One night I thought I saw the outline of a man in the audience who might be him, but I never knew for sure. I’d never be ready for that meeting, never know what to say, even what to feel. You can live your life – be responsible, bring up children – and still be totally unprepared to face a stranger who happens to be your father.

Jason had called several times to see how the play was going, how I was. He was not overjoyed with his own experience. He loved working with Annie Bancroft, but wasn’t very confident about the future of the play. He said he’d try to get to Philadelphia. But I didn’t want him in Philadelphia – I wanted to concentrate on my show.

We opened to good notices in Philly, and went on rehearsing days and playing nights – Barry was four weeks behind us in working on his part. Jason called to say he’d have a free day while they made the move from Boston, and announced that he was coming. I told him I’d rather he didn’t, but, being contrary, he more or less told me to go to hell, that he’d come down anyway. Typical – when I wanted him, no chance; when I didn’t, I couldn’t keep him away. But still I didn’t expect him to show up, knowing he’d be unwelcome.

On the Saturday night after the show I got back to my room and there was Jason. He’d come down on the train – was solicitous, bending over backward. I was not very responsive, maybe not very nice. I still cared about him, but I had started to care about myself again too. That made a tremendous difference.

O
pening night at the Royale
Theatre, where I had once excelled at ushering. December 8, 1965. Leslie was there with Mother and Lee (Steve was at Milton, Sam was too young). Once I got going, I had a good time. I felt good about this one, and so did the audience, but there were still the reviews to come. I welcomed all my friends backstage after the show. Abe was thrilled, and Merrick said, ‘You’re a clutch player – when it counts, like tonight, you’re better than ever. The sign of a star!’ I felt terrific. Mother sat onstage, trembling. She loved the play, loved me in it, was clearly prejudiced. Merrick hosted a small table at Sardi’s, just for Abe and Carin Burrows, Barry, the French authors of the play, and me. Jason came to pick me up after the show, feeling out of place. When I entered Sardi’s, there was the traditional greeting of applause and cheers – it has no bearing on the success of the play or its worth, but it’s exciting for the actors. Sardi’s always gets the morning papers first, hot off the presses. I spent most of my evening waiting – so much depended on this. Vincent Sardi came toward us with the papers – we all rushed to open them, then the rush to look for your name, to find the adjectives. Why we have to be told what we are by someone else, I’ll never know, but we do. The show was a hit. Kerr was ecstatic: I was dazzling, I was a hit. Taubman of the
Times
found it hilarious – me hilarious.

I was one happy lady – walking on air. Everyone hugged everyone else – the closed corporation of a play. Jason felt left out. He was no
part of our play, and
The Devils
hadn’t been well received and wasn’t going well. This was my night and I was enjoying it to the hilt – you might even say lapping it up. It was my first unequivocal hit. The next day there was a line at the box office, and the mail orders were heavy – people were planning months in advance. In a hit, once that curtain goes up, the waves of love that come across are loud and clear. In America, audiences are guided by the critics; if they’re told to enjoy a play, they do – if they’re told it’s funny, they have smiles on their faces when they walk into the theatre.