Being the front-runner in their eyes, I was stopped and had to speak to each member of the press – same questions, ‘How does it feel?’ ‘How did you hear about the nomination?’ etc., etc., and so forth. By this time, I was totally stressed, beyond nervous. We were finally led to our seats – all seven of us in a row – me on the outside – Steve sitting next to me holding my hand. The evening began with Master of Ceremonies Billy Crystal. I did my best – trying to look relaxed as though I was enjoying myself. I doubt that I was very convincing. The truth is, I wanted to win. No matter how you try to rationalize it, to be nominated is fine – chosen by your peers, etc. – but it’s better to win. In any contest, that is the goal.
The first award – wouldn’t you know – Best Supporting Actress. Kevin Spacey came out with the envelope in his hand, announced the nominees, looked at me and smiled, opened the envelope – ‘And the winner is …’ He was so sure – my heart was pounding so loud, I thought I would faint, Steve was squeezing my hand – his voice dropped. ‘The winner is Juliette Binoche, The English Patient.’ It was The English Patient down the line. Harvey Weinstein had done it again. I felt so badly for my children. They were so upset for me. Steve turned white. He couldn’t believe it. Sam and Leslie were stunned.
We got through the rest of the program and headed for the great dinner – chocolate Oscars at every place. I felt very alone. No matter how you slice it, this was a ball for winners. Kevin Spacey was there. He came over and invited me on to the dance floor, thank heaven. It’s not a good thing to be a shoo-in.
I did, however, receive a Cesar, the French equivalent of our Oscar, a beautiful sculpture by Cesar himself, the famous, ubiquitous and much loved French sculptor. It is large – in brass – easily identifiable as his creation. It is visible to me in my apartment and always gives me a lift at the memory of that occasion. It was not only in the same year as the Oscars, but also the second honor bestowed on me by the French. The first had been presented two years before – Commandeur des Arts et Lettres.
The Commandeur is a truly distinguished honor given by the Minister of Culture, Jacques Toubon. At the same ceremony, Dustin Hoffman was made Officier – the only time in my life or career I would be one notch above Dustin! The medal is on a blue and white ribbon – so lovely – and there is a tiny blue and white rosette to keep in your buttonhole. Dustin had found a poem by Francois Villon that he dedicated to me. I was so touched, it is one of the greatest perks in my life to know Dustin Hoffman, not well, but to have spent enough time together over the years to feel great affection for him. I have never worked with him and, though I’d love to, I guess I never will. But I really enjoy his company and am always happy to see him.
The Cesar was presented to me by Alain Delon. I accepted in French – speaking quite well, though nervously. The audience cheered me and I felt good, though I am never comfortable with that kind of reception. There was plenty of press but I do not recall a red carpet.
It’s a funny thing about a red carpet, it has a place and life of its own. There is one at each of the award events in California – SAG, Golden Globe, etc. It is of varying length depending on the venue. Thinking of the many years I have walked that walk, I realize the more I walk it, the larger my hips – until one day they will pass the width of the carpet which tends to narrow anyway with the budget – and incidentally was quite short and turned to pink at the last Tribeca Film Festival. Yikes! What has happened to my world? Can we never preserve those special traditions?! It’s the economy, stupid. I guess.
So the nomination came and went and I survived. Then, one day, later that year, I was opening my mail. I get an enormous amount of junk mail – announcements of openings – people from all over wanting time or donations. I don’t expect too much when I’m opening the mail so I do it, letter opener in hand, quickly. I have been known on rare occasions to toss an envelope out leaving the letter in. Anyway, this morning I was about done with that day’s offering – a few more envelopes left. Slit went the opener, out came the inside, I opened it to the following:
August 27, 1997
Dear Ms. Bacall:
This December we will celebrate the 20th annual Kennedy Center Honors. On behalf of the Kennedy Center Trustees and our national Artists Committee, I am writing to invite you to receive the Kennedy Center Honors in recognition of your extraordinary contributions to the life of our country. The Honors are presented annually to individuals who have enriched American life by distinguished achievement in the performing arts. The primary criterion is excellence.
The letter continued with details of the weekend’s events – December 6th and 7th. They requested confidentiality until George Stevens, Jr announced the honorees. The letter was signed, ‘Jim Johnson, Chairman of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.’
It took a while for the shock to wear off. I could not believe it. As for the flattery, never in my wildest dreams could I ever envision such accolades being applied to me. It didn’t sink in. I checked the envelope – Kennedy Center Washington – I reread the note. I still couldn’t believe it. My God – that was completely unexpected. But so thrilling. I needed someone badly at that moment to share this with. My first three calls were of course to my children. My pal, Jean Kennedy Smith, who had known but had never said a word to me, was very happy when I called her. Now that was a very happy moment and a real surprise. And on the night you don’t have to do a thing. Just sit there and be praised.
The state dinner on Saturday night is great fun. There is one person who delivers a toast for each honoree. My toastmaster was the wonderful Peter Stone, playwright and close friend of many years. He shone brightly that night. It was a marvelous weekend: a White House reception, a presentation of the medal by the President. It doesn’t matter what side of the political spectrum you are on, entering the White House, seeing the portraits of the Presidents on the walls, climbing the staircase, the U.S. Marine Band Combo playing, meeting Senators you don’t like much politically and finding them rather likeable – it’s an absolutely unpolitical weekend – and it is somewhat awe-making and truly exciting. And nervous-making.
Bob Dylan was also a nominee. He does not like crowds – feels very uneasy in the midst of ceremonies like this one. We had met in Sydney in 1986 when I was playing in Sweet Bird of Youth and he was giving a few concerts. He gave me tickets to his event and I gave him tickets for mine. I was totally thrilled to meet him, and Colin Friels, who was the leading man in Sweet Bird, was beyond excited. To attend a concert, much less sit with Dylan after a concert, was something he had only dreamed of – that, of course, made it even more fun for me. Dylan and I got along very well – supped after our shows and had fun. Apart from once at another of his concerts, we hadn’t seen one another since that time. Of course I loved seeing him under these circumstances. I hugged him, introduced him to my children – all totally thrilled to meet him. And why not? It was a weekend to remember.
The Kennedy Center Honors must rank as the highest that it is possible to receive in the arts in the United States. The thrill for me was to be in the company of Bob Dylan, Edward Villela and Jessye Norman and, on the night of the gala itself, to be on the stage of the Kennedy Center Opera House, to see once more the incredible contribution each has made over a period of years and to share the honor with the Kennedy family who were present – Senator Edward Kennedy, who never fails to demonstrate his friendship for me on every special occasion in my professional life, my pal Jean Kennedy Smith, Eunice K, Sarge Shriver and Pat Lawford – I’m crazy about them all. They are all unique personalities and after friendships that began almost fifty years ago, our affection for one another remains the same whether we live in the same city or not, see each other very often or not. My face still lights up at the sight of them.
So with enormous gratitude, the work continued. I learned a few things during that year of 1996–1997 – that just like when I began in the theatre at age seventeen, it all was important to me, I needed to accomplish my
goal, I needed to prove to myself that I was an actress, a good one. And I wanted the approval of my peers. The vulnerability of my being had never left me and clearly never would. As long as I continued to work and get better, good parts with good people would come my way again. I have taken some chances — acted in a French movie speaking French, no less. That was something — talk about nerves!
The French movie was titled Le Jour et la Nuit (Day and Night). Written and directed by Bernard Henri-Levy — a brilliant and highly respected writer, journalist, philosopher — everything. This was to be his first full-length feature film. He came to New York to convince me to be in it. I said that I could speak French well enough to get along socially but to act in France with Alain Delon, Bernard’s wife, the lovely, lovely Arielle Dombasle, and others was quite a different thing. It would terrify me. I have spent enough time with my French friends to know that when they converse with one another the words flow so quickly that I am lost. So acting in French — I would miss all the nuances.
On the other hand, I’d always wanted to be in a French film, being such a Francophile. And to work in Paris — heaven. In addition, Bernard Henri-Levy convinced me he would have a coach who would help me with the dialogue, the scenes etc., and he himself would make sure I understood the scene before we shot it. He was very persuasive. So I said, ‘Yes.’ And guess what? The wardrobe was done in Paris — the movie was shot in Mexico. So not only did I have a problem acting French but also communicating in Spanish. A nightmare. The crew was adorable, though. I remembered the Mexican crew in Treasure of the Sierra Madre where Bogie and I spent eight weeks. They are the sweetest people on earth — smiling — happy — but not speedy. Alain, Arielle and the rest of the cast were charming. We each would have villas in Gueravaca and suites in Ziwataneyhu by the sea. Bernard Henri-Levy and his team were excellent but with its being B.H.L.’s first foray into the movie world, he didn’t have as much time as he expected to focus on my French. We got through it miraculously. It was not the best nor far from the worst movie ever made. Again, it was the people, the experiences, but the glaring reality is that when it comes to acting, I’d better stick to English!
Having lived alone for more than twenty years, I think one of the more interesting parts of my life is the luck I have had in having a great collection of friends of all ages. It is the glorious parade of the variety of friendships made both here and in Europe that keeps me going. It is people who change you, who fill and enrich your life. I will do almost anything to keep a friendship alive and well. As of now my friendships of anywhere from twenty to fifty years ago are moving along quite well. There’s an occasional slip or two but nothing major, and these last few years I have happily and luckily made a few new ones of the younger persuasion. I am counting on the combination doing me for as long as I am breathing.
As friendship has been the mainstay of my life – next to my children – the single most important factor in my own sense of well being, the loss of friends, particularly close friends, has been shattering. The most unexpected, heart-stopping loss was Roddy McDowall in 1998.
Roddy had the greatest gift for friendship of anyone I have ever known. He paid attention – more than attention – to his hundreds of friends he had made worldwide. And we each felt that we were the closest, and in a way I suppose we each were. Not a week went by when there wasn’t some word either by phone, fax, postcard if traveling – or actual sight of, face to face. He was extraordinary. He forgot no one. He would call to see if I was headed to California, or heard that I was and then we’d make our dinner dates. Of course we’d speak before and meet before, one on one, but this dinner date had to be locked in. He wasn’t a Virgo for nothing. He was the most organized man I’ve ever known, with filing systems for his extensive movie collection from silent days on, and keeping track of where we all were and what we were doing, plus his work as an actor (a fine one) in theatre, film, TV, book reading. Not a stone left unturned. And all the while laughter. He had so much to give and he gave it all.
Our friendship took hold when I moved back to New York in 1959. He was living here then – he in Camelot with Richard Burton and I in Goodbye Charlie with Sydney Chaplin. We shared many friends but mostly we shared our lives as actors, as singles living alone – on the constant search, in his words, ‘of gainful employment.’ When he moved to California the connection remained the same. He was someone I looked forward to – loved seeing – loved hearing from. He was always there when I was on Broadway and/or touring in a play, filling me with praise, telling all who would listen that they HAD to see me in this or that.
Then there were the dinners – ah, those dinners. The cast was always good, usually numbering twelve or more with place cards, silver candlesticks, votives, the dining room always alight with conversation and laughter. Food would arrive somehow – plates filled with meat and vegetables. He had one friend who purported to be a cook or wanted to be one. He never made it. But of course one always said how delicious the dinner was. Having gone to all that time and trouble, it was unthinkable that a negative word be said to Roddy. Anyway, an evening at Roddy’s was not about food. I don’t know who planned the menus but it wouldn’t have changed anything. The meal was always food well bought – often overcooked – still edible – not an inch of space on the plate that was not covered. But we joked and laughed anyway and loved being there and with him.
Ringing his doorbell before entering his house for the usual unexpected but always interesting dinner group. The front door opening slowly with that sweet, mischievous face peering out to see who it was. Upon identifying – opening the door wide – accompanied by a giggle – “Bagel” – his favorite name for me. Then ushering me into the living room where there, sitting around the coffee table, facing the roaring fire, would be Robert Wagner and Jill St John, the Axelrods, my first meeting with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, David Hockney – very, very special, Roddy always proud of his friends, of having brought people together. People who might otherwise not have met.
Another night Bette Davis came. That was a major event for me. I never really got to know her at Warner Bros. But I clearly remember the night at Roddy’s: off in a corner of the living room, Bette holding forth about studio days with an aside to me – ‘You remember what it was like.’ Her first acknowledgement of me and my presence there. She having always been my major idol on the silver screen, me having grown up with her, adoring her, but never having a real relationship with her as I did with Katharine Hepburn.
Two more totally different women you will never find. Bette Davis’s cool, unreachable self. Kate’s direct but, though independent, warm, emotional self. It all boiled down to Roddy who admired so many, loved so many, was loyal to all. Though close to quite a few of us – closeset of all to Sybil Burton Christopher, Kate Burton and Amy Christopher, and Elizabeth Taylor, of course. I just saw The White Cliffs of Dover on Turner Classic Movies the other night. Elizabeth and he had been friends since childhood working together at MGM – so amazing – with friendship growing into adulthood, only ending with Roddy’s illness and death.
Loyalty was a supreme part of Roddy’s character. Every meeting was a celebration. We’d all sit around the living room fireplace from the moment of entry into his house, with sofas and chairs and stools gathered around a coffee table that looked like a wagon wheel on which rested containers of M&Ms, assorted nuts, chocolates, all goodies. It was there we had our before-dinner, and sometimes after-dinner, drinks and coffee. After all that, if it wasn’t too late, Roddy would run a movie, preferably an old one. All in all it was a special evening, special because Roddy made it so.
Our last date came five or six weeks before he died. It was going to be dinner, first at home, then in a restaurant (how unlike Roddy) then he rang me again to tell me his back was acting up – it had been a problem for him, starting years before when he was playing in A Christmas Carol and had to lift ‘Tiny Tim’ (who was not so tiny.) We finally decided on lunch at the Bel Air Hotel wh
ere I was staying and he preferred. He had been to the doctor, had some painkillers.
When I met him for lunch, he was walking with a cane, something he had not done before. He did not know what else could have put such a strain on his back. Anyway, we had our lunch. Roddy had to leave after a rather short meal because he was unable to sit for too long. I walked him to his red convertible car, gave him a big hug, many kisses and off he went. It never occurred to me it might be something serious. I called him before I left town to see how he was and his response to his medication. Always the same answer, ‘Better. I’m fine.’ I took him at his word.
After I’d been home for a couple of weeks, he called, asked if I was planning to come to Los Angeles. He’d heard I was. I knew then that something was very wrong. I’d been in touch with my dear friend Joan Axelrod, who kept me informed. I had been planning to come out again for work reasons but realizing that Roddy, dear Roddy, was seriously ill, I decided to come sooner. I wanted to spend some quality or half-quality time with him, whatever he could give. Though he, God knows, had a multitude of close friends out there, I felt very isolated being in New York. Meantime one of his most cherished friends, and one of mine, as well, Sybil Christopher, went out to be with Roddy on a daily basis. Sybil and I became friends in 1951 on my first trip to England. She was Sybil Burton then – married to Richard. She was an instant plus in my life and remains so to this day. And she was major in Roddy’s – she was probably the closest of all and dedicated to him. She would be with him – look after him – keep his spirits up. She loved him – they loved each other.
I had to see him. So I called him again to say I was on my way whereupon his assistant called to say he wanted to have a quiet dinner on the Saturday night after my arrival. Just Roddy, Elizabeth Taylor – his childhood friend – and me. Of course, no question, I’ll be there. I couldn’t believe that even with his illness he could still plan an evening. Nor had it ever occurred to me that, weeks before, when Roddy was told he was terminally ill, he had begun to make his lists.
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