When we were finally ready to go on the air and I heard the countdown – 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 – my heart was pounding so hard I was sure it would be picked up by the mike. But I seemed to sail through with flying colors, my friends were surprised and pleased, and, most important, Sherwood liked me. I had a tremendous sense of accomplishment, which was my first clue as to how much I would enjoy acting onstage now. After the show we gave a party at our house. Everybody was so relieved, they got drunk. We had a rug with a pattern of large squares, and at one point in the evening I looked down and saw Hank curled up peacefully inside one. He looked so comfortable that I decided to join him, which I did on an adjacent square. The last thing I remember was being carried upstairs, and Bogie being absolutely furious with me for passing out.
The Desperate Hours was going to be filmed by Willie Wyler. Bogie wanted to play the gunman – the first Mantee character to come along in years. To have Bogie and Spence in the same picture was everyone’s dream. But one day Bogie told me there was a billing problem with Spence – naturally, they had both had top billing for many years. Bogie said, ‘I don’t give a damn. Let them work it out.’ The result was an × (the agents were having fun with it), and the way they’d drawn it, it looked like Spencer Bogart and Humphrey Tracy. So it never worked out, which saddened Bogie. If it had been left to them the result might have been different. How I would have loved to see them work together! Fredric March played the part, a marvelous actor, and Bogie enjoyed working with him. But Bogie and Spence, all the feelings they had for one another, plus their talent – that would have been extraordinary to see and to record on film.
David and Hjordis Niven, Mike and Gloria Romanoff, Swifty, Frank, Judy and Sid, Bogie and I formed a group known as the Rat Pack. In order to qualify, one had to be addicted to nonconformity, staying up late, drinking, laughing, and not caring what anyone thought or said about us. Spence was only an honorary rat, because he lived a secluded life, but his heart was in the right place. We held a dinner in a private room at Romanoff’s to elect officials and draw up rules – Bogie’s way of thumbing his nose at Hollywood. I was voted Den Mother, Bogie was in charge of public relations. No one could join without unanimous approval of the charter members. Nat Benchley, a visiting rat from New York, drew up an insignia for us – a large group of rats of all shapes and sizes in all positions. What fun we had with it all! We were an odd assortment, but we liked each other so much, and every one of us had a wild sense of the ridiculous. The press had a field day, but we had the upper hand.
Noel Coward was going to appear in Las Vegas for the first time at a nightclub in The Sands Hotel. The Sands was where Frank always played; he had an interest in it. Frank liked to fly his friends into Vegas, not a place most of us Rat Packers frequented. He really enjoyed being head man, arranging everything in his territory. Looking forward to Noel, we all flew up to Vegas and were met by hotel representatives; luggage was whisked off to appropriate suites filled with booze. Then drinks, dinner, all arranged by Frank, with a hundred dollars’ worth of chips for each lady. And a front table for the opening, stocked with the usual Jack Daniel’s (which I’d started drinking a few years before and Frank had switched to), Scotch, vodka, etc. Frank forgot nothing.
I shall never forget watching Noel Coward walk onto that stage. He was holding a mike and – I couldn’t believe it – he was shaking with nerves. After all his years and years of experience and accomplishment, he was still nervous. He’d been apprehensive about appearing in Las Vegas – would they understand his material? Would they care? He needn’t have worried – he had a huge triumph. We were there for two more days, saw Noel’s show nightly, met at Frank’s suite each noon for drinks and laughter. Funny, but Frank, who was known to have several girls around, didn’t have one with him that time. As a matter of fact, he seldom brought a broad (his word) when he met with us. We all flew to Frank’s house in Palm Springs for the weekend, and Noel came down for his day off, courtesy of Frank. Noel played and sang his songs, Frank sang, they were both in top form – imagine what that song fest would have been worth recorded! Frank took us over in Palm Springs as he had in Vegas. No one was ever bothered with a bill for a hotel, for a meal – that was Frank’s way. It made him feel good; it was his way of entertaining us – in his home as he had been in ours. And he had company – he wasn’t alone.
Then back to reality. Bogie enjoyed that convivial, crazy, party-holiday atmosphere for a while, but he wasn’t one to pass his time aimlessly for very long. We were all good friends, but the Vegas-Palm Springs life was Frank’s life, not ours.
When Noel closed in Las Vegas, we gave our first pool party in his honor. All the Hollywood people he cared about were there. I, the nervous hostess who was always demented about everything being exactly right, decided that Noel had had enough grand dinners. Ours would be very American, very California, so we had a barbecue going at one end of the pool, with hamburgers and hot dogs and salads, and Good Humors of every variety for dessert. Noel loved it. It was a happy night. 1955 was full of happy nights and days.
We took Steve out on the boat with us one weekend and I was so terrified he’d fall overboard, we agreed that next time Bogie would take him alone on a men’s weekend, leaving the anxious mother home with her daughter. Bogie was amazing with Leslie. I used to love watching them together. He didn’t know quite what to do with her – he would gaze at her with wonder in his eyes. She was delicate, she was a girl, so he would be delicate with her. He was a gentle man, not overly demonstrative, yet when he looked at his daughter you could see him melt. He became totally vulnerable.
Bogie finally did take Steve out on the boat. When he returned, he told me that when they got to Catalina, they went out in the dinghy to set their lobster trap, then back to shore so Steve could play on the rocky beach for a while. Steve wanted to go on playing, so Bogie said he’d come back for him and rowed off. A few minutes later Steve called out, ‘Daddy, wait for me,’ and started to swim to the boat. He was only six and a half years old, but, by God, he made it. Bogie was so impressed. ‘The little guy’s got spirit,’ he said. They became very close in those few days together. That was the test period, and Bogie intended to teach Steve to sail and take him with him often. Steve loved it, did what he was told to do on board, and felt very grown-up being with his father.
Mother and Lee were about that summer. Lee always went on the boat with Bogie; Mother stayed home with me and the children. She adored those children. It was good to see her so happy. Her marriage could not have been better – Lee was a good, kind man who took care of her, and she was mad about him; they took trips together, laughed together. Mother had a wry wit that I hope I inherited. Bogie’s sister Pat also got along wonderfully with Mother and Lee. She was with us a lot when she was out of the hospital, and she was out for longer and longer periods of time. We were a family, and it seemed that the quality of life had improved for all of us, that nothing could blight that condition.
Bogie and I went to New York in time for the Rocky Marciano championship bout in September. I always looked forward to a trip to New York, but that year we’d moved around a lot and I really missed being in our new house. I’d got the garden just the way I wanted it, the pool and the poolhouse made it perfect, and with the tennis court we really had everything there. There was no reason to leave. But Bogie had contracted to do The Harder They Fall, a fight picture, and because he was playing a reporter the studio had gotten him ringside seats. He sat with the press. One of the reporters there, an old friend of Frank’s, said – with affection, mind you – ‘Frank’s a last-rites pal. If you get hit by a truck, he’s right there with an ambulance, everything, but how often do you get hit by a truck?’
I’d been offered a part in a movie called Written on the Wind – a lot of money for three weeks’ work. It was a soap opera with Rock Hudson, a hot new star. My career had not been flourishing, yet again, and when I told Bogie about it, he thought I should do it if the set-up seemed right. It
had a big budget, a good cast. I’d never done anything quite like it before – a really straight leading lady, no jokes, so I said yes. But I was able to go to Chicago with Bogie for a few days’ location shooting as my picture wouldn’t need me until November. And one afternoon I had tea with Adlai. I was still somewhat in awe of him, although we had strengthened our relationship through the written word. I was brave on paper, setting down whatever seemed important to me. Face to face, I was less outspoken. He took it all in good humor.
Poor Bogie was under the weather in Chicago. He’d always been a cougher. From the first day of shooting To Have and Have Not, between ‘rolling’ and ‘action,’ I’d heard him cough. Often sitting in a theatre he would cough when there was silence on the stage or an actor was speaking quietly. It was sometimes irritating. At times he’d cough in a way I’ve never seen before or since – in a series, unable to catch his breath. His explanation was that he’d always had a sensitive throat. In Chicago he saw a doctor for a vitamin shot – he couldn’t miss a day of work, after all. He got through the location work and was soon back to his old self after we returned home. He continued his filming there while I began mine.
Noel had sent me a cable asking if I’d play Elvira, the ghost in Blithe Spirit, on television with him. I was terrified, but of course said yes. To work with Noel Coward was an opportunity not to be missed. As television was still fairly new and I was so scared, I wouldn’t have dreamed of starting rehearsals without knowing my lines. Anyway, Noel insisted on it. It wasn’t easy to learn them while shooting Written on the Wind, but I did my best. Claudette Colbert was to play the second wife, Ruth, and Mildred Natwick was to recreate her original Broadway role of Madame Arcati. Noel was directing as well as acting. He’d had some trouble with his leg, but was going to be full of shots so it would be okay.
Noel arrived in California early in December, and we began our three weeks of rehearsal. On the first day, all but Claudette knew their lines. She and Noel were old friends – she’s a terrific lady and a good actress – but she liked to work with script in hand. That did not suit the Master at all, he had specifically requested that we be word perfect, so an edginess began between them. They were both right, but when working with Noel you did it his way. The edginess grew. He said, ‘Look at Betty – she’s been filming, yet knows her part perfectly.’ That only made me want to kill myself. One day during rehearsal he lost his temper – Claudette still had the script in hand – and said, ‘That’s the wrong line.’ Claudette said, ‘You’ve got me so nervous I’m saying the lines backward.’ Noel: ‘And that’s exactly how you’re playing the part.’ She’d had her clothes made by Balmain, as she always had – and insisted on being photographed only on the left side of her face. Noel thought both sides were the same – she’d made a successful career thinking otherwise – and he had no intention of turning the sets around – oh, it was a wonderful three weeks. I tried to pacify Claudette, who was really and rightly very upset and nervous; I had no argument with her – everyone was nervous about live television anyway. Then Noel decided we had to have an audience in the studio and he would invite them. That meant Hedda, Louella, and every big star you could think of would be there. Panic. I said, ‘Of course. I’ll die, but of course.’ Noel ran a tight ship.
So Blithe Spirit was performed ‘live’ in front of a name audience of about one hundred people, and – thank God – it went off without a hitch. Relations between Noel and Claudette were still strained, but the performance was a success. Our dressing rooms were swarming with people afterward – Quent Reynolds was in town and came with Bogie, Judy, Merle Oberon, Clifton Webb, Liz Taylor. I felt very good about this show – was mad about my gray ghost make-up, enjoyed doing it, was less nervous than in Petrified Forest, though still nervous enough for four. Bogie was proud of me. He said, ‘You must look at your print of it. [Part of my deal was to get a print.] You used every moment – stayed “alive” even when you weren’t speaking.’ In other words, I had stayed in the part throughout – continued to think, though silent. To have Bogie so positively approving was an event. He only said what he meant – he never lied to me. He had told me years before that as a young actor he’d been in David Belasco’s office one day when a playwright was coming in to see the famous producer-director. Mr Belasco sighed and said to Bogie, ‘It’s a terrible play he’s written.’ But when the playwright came in, Belasco praised him – told him he’d liked the play, but that he had too many productions scheduled to think of putting it on for some time. Later Bogie asked Belasco why he had lied. ‘When you know someone can do much better, then you criticize and make him go back and write and rewrite. But when you know it’s the best he can do, then you praise him.’ That attitude had nothing to do with Bogie’s comments on Blithe Spirit; he had been all too critical on other occasions!
Clifton gave a large party for Noel before the TV show and told me that Hedda was going to be there. I’d had nothing to do with her since she’d printed some lousy remarks about me, as well as trying to keep John Wayne and Bill Wellman from hiring me for Blood Alley. Clifton had decided it was time we made up. I’d been drinking martinis – don’t ask me why. Clifton put one arm around Hedda and the other around me. ‘Come on, you two, make up – this is ridiculous.’ He hated people he liked not to like each other. I fumed at Hedda, told her she’d been a bitch to try to keep me from working. She said, ‘You’re right, I was. Why don’t you give me a kick?’ Whereupon she turned around and I kicked her in the ass – most unladylike, but very martini-like – whereupon everyone laughed loudly and a truce was declared.
We all went to Frank’s in Palm Springs for New Year’s – a lovely way to start the year, with close friends who loved one another. Noel went back to town on Sunday for some reason I don’t remember. The Romanoffs were staying till the next day – the Nivs and us were going back. That night as dinner came to a close, Frank, looking sad, begged us to stay on. Not begging in the true sense, but begging in Frank’s sense – looking very forlorn and alone. I thought, ‘Oh, the poor guy, we should stay.’ I looked at Bogie and he said, ‘Sorry, old pal, we’ve got to get back to town.’ In the car going home, I said, ‘We should have stayed.’ Bogie said, ‘No, we shouldn’t. You must always remember we have a life of our own that has nothing to do with Frank. He chose to live the way he’s living – alone. It’s too bad if he’s lonely, but that’s his choice. We have our own road to travel, never forget that – we can’t live his life.’ As always, Bogie was dead right. He stood behind his choices, and, persuasive as Frank could be, he could never make Bogie forget who he was. That intractable sense of self was Bogie’s greatest strength and certainly one of his greatest attractions for his men friends – to say nothing of his women, to say nothing of future generations.
1956 was to be the year that Bogie and I were to make our first film together since Key Largo eight years before. Warner Bros. had bought John P Marquand’s novel Melville Goodwin, U.S.A., a love story about a military man and a Clare Boothe Luce-type woman. We were both looking forward to it. We’d been married ten and a half years by then. Life seemed very good indeed.
Bogie came home one day and told me he’d run into Greer Garson at lunch. Greer had said she didn’t like his cough and that he must go to see Dr Maynard Brandsma, her doctor, an internist at the Beverly Hills Clinic. She’d actually dragged him there for an examination. I was so used to Bogie’s cough that I hadn’t been aware of any change. He’d been off his food a little, but that wasn’t unusual – he said that sometimes his throat burned when he drank orange juice. Not enough to do anything about it. I should have realized at once that the mere fact that he’d consented to go with Greer to a doctor was indicative of something serious. But any time I ever mentioned a doctor to him, Bogie bristled, so he wouldn’t have listened to me in any case. The doctor found his esophagus a bit inflamed and wanted him to come in for a sputum test in a few days. Bogie had his sputum test and Dr Brandsma said he’d call in a few days with the res
ults. The whole medical scene was foreign territory to both Bogie and myself, so we didn’t pay too much attention.
The Desperate Hours opened and we went to the big premiere, which also honored Willie Wyler. Bogie had loved working with Willie again – Willie always made you try harder, go beyond yourself. His and Huston’s methods were different, but they both stretched real actors.
And we were having great fun shooting our wardrobe tests together for our new picture – mine was to be very chic, mostly designed by Norman Norell. I couldn’t believe Bogie and I would be working together again after so much time. The crew were all familiar to us – Warners was another home in a sense, we knew it so well. Our sense of play, of bouncing off each other, was so great that the test was almost like playing a scene – we were Slim and Steve all over again. The picture would begin at the end of February, and then in the spring Bogie was going to make The Good Shepherd at Columbia for his own company. It was a sea story by C.S. Forester and Bogie was excited about it.
The doctor called Bogie in for another test – a bronchoscopy. The sputum test had produced some irregularities, and the bronchoscope would reach down into the esophagus and take a sample of tissue. After that, Dr Brandsma suggested we go down to Palm Springs for a week of rest and see how Bogie’s throat felt. It still didn’t seem ominous to us – like an infection of some kind. Yet Bogie’s appetite had definitely decreased. It bothered him to swallow. He was so thin to begin with – 155 pounds soaking wet, as he said – that he could ill afford not to eat. Frank generously offered us his house, so down to the Springs we went. After the week was up, Brandsma wanted to make another sputum test but we were still not too worried. I just knew that Bogie wasn’t up to snuff and was disturbed by his inability to swallow much solid food.
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