By Myself and Then Some

by Lauren Bacall

  George let me in, warning me not to tire her. Into the bedroom I went with a big (convincing, I hoped) smile on my face. I headed for the bed where she sat looking (except for the oxygen tubes in her nose) so much better than I had expected – in full make-up, perfectly groomed, in one of her favorite white cotton nightgowns. I pulled up a chair next to her side of the bed so we could have our time together. George discreetly left us alone. She brought me up to date with how she was – felt – never really going into the terrible world of cancer. Being a big boned woman, she never did look emaciated as so many victims of that disease do. She told me how fantastic the hospice people had been, how attentive. Then she took from her night table a bottle of medicine with an eyedropper lid, waved it and said, ‘They left this for me – so if I am in pain, this will take care of that.’ I was very shocked at the sight of that bottle, clearly morphine or some magic potion with morphine in it to alleviate pain for diseases such as this. The bottle from the hospice nurse signified the end of life to me. Joan was still able to talk about it, though whatever other medication they had given her did dull her mind to some degree. She was still determined to attend Cecilia Peck’s wedding a few days later and Joan was the kind of woman who, once her mind was made up, would get enough adrenaline going to enable her to fulfill her wish. I begged her not to push herself, but I’d be there to hold her hand if she needed me. About then, George popped into the room saying it was time for me to go. She was getting tired. She said she was a bit and she clearly was. I hugged her, told her I loved her and would see her at the Pecks’. She handed me a small gift bag – told me to look inside – she wanted me to have it. It was a small double picture gold frame from Goodbye Charlie’s opening belonging to her and George in which I could place two photos of them or whoever I wished. That made me instantly teary so I blew her a kiss and said I’d see her at the wedding.

  Come the wedding day and, by God, Joan came. She lasted through the ceremony, and for about a half hour more before she had to leave. I kissed her goodbye and said I’d call the next day. When I did, George picked up the phone and told me Joan was really too tired to speak. It’s strange how a voice changes at such a time – it was clear that Joan was too weak – that I had said my last goodbye to her. It was a few days after that that George called to tell me she had gone. She had always been so innately strong, I never expected her to die so soon. But then even when someone is very ill, one does not expect it. There is no way to prepare yourself for disaster.

  I had remembered her telling me she wanted friends to gather around her pool – raise a glass of wine, eat the snacks that she had listed in her will along with the above instructions, but I had to block it from my mind. Unhappily I couldn’t be at the pool gathering as I had work in New York. However, we did share our thoughts and feelings for Joan in my apartment at roughly the same hour as the gathering in California. A fond farewell to a remarkable woman and a wonderful friend.

  After all the sadness, suddenly, at the end of 2001, something surprising and positive happened: I was offered a part in Lars von Trier’s movie, Dogville. The offer came from left field and I was thrilled. Lars had made a great movie, Breaking the Wave. He was an original, unpredictable director so, although my part in the movie was small, I said yes because of him.

  Again it was an ensemble piece, though the star was Nicole Kidman. In addition to the appeal of working with Lars, I was attracted to it being an international cast headed by Nicole: Ben Gazzara and James Caan – both of whom I had known and liked before – Blair Brown – a great girl, lovely and so talented – Stellan Skaargard, that marvelous actor whose work I had seen in Breaking the Waves and who I got to know quite well and like enormously, and Siobhan Fallon – a funny, funny woman who was feeding a newborn baby and two of her other young children before the shooting day even started. How she did it, I’ll never know. So good things came out of that small part. Nicole and I became fast friends. She is not only beautiful – which she is to the extreme – but she is very smart, very professional and a first-class actress of broad scope.

  I was fascinated to see the way Lars von Trier worked. I had envisioned him to be a very big man, tall and husky and somewhere in his late fifties. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Blair Brown and I, having been on the same flight from New York, were met by the producer, Vibeke Windelov, upon our arrival in Sweden. She turned out to be a big plus from day one and all through the making of the film and after – a really terrific woman who I have tremendous affection for. She is smart, original and fun. Not many producers are fun. She is. We were taken to what was to be our home for the next six weeks or more in Trollhattan and on to the dining room for lunch. After a while, a man appeared in the room with a smile on his face and a small stuffed moose in his hand. He was of medium height and looked to be in his early forties. He was Lars von Trier. The direct opposite of my imaginings. He handed me the moose – named Oliver (I know not why) – and sat him on the television in my bedroom living quarters. He still sits on my bedroom television at home so in a way I see him every day and Lars remains in my mind.

  Working with the unknown is amazement, amusement and angst. At least for me. And Lars’s method involves an actor more or less forgetting what movies have taught him throughout his career. With Lars, you don’t have to worry about hitting the marks, you can change the dialogue and, in this case, the set was not a set but a floor with the town of Dogville drawn on it. We were shown where the doors and windows of our individual spaces were. That was so we didn’t walk through a wall that wasn’t there or jump out of a window, which I sometimes felt like doing in the confusion and frustration of forgetting it was a window. My character had this small shop where I sold potatoes and apples and some cleaning materials and I was famous for my gooseberry pies. Supposedly (although I never felt that way) I was the head of the town of Dogville, controlling all who lived there. That was the way it was presented to me. I was the only one with a door to leave and enter my shop. I had a collection of miniature figurines God knows from what country or how I came upon them. The Kidman character takes a fancy to them and those tiny creatures become one of the central parts of the story.

  Lars had a humongous camera harness that weighed more than he did – and that he carried on his back and shoulders as he was photographing the scenes. He was in control – complete control – of all of us. From my point of view, as there were no walls, when the camera was photographing a scene at one end of the set, my shop, being in a direct line at the other end, might have been in camera range. That, in turn, meant there was a very good chance that I would be in the shot. Which, once again, meant that I had to be in character at all times just in case there was even a shadow of me in view.

  As you might imagine, working that way took some getting used to. I’m not sure I ever really did get used to it, but I tried. I wanted adventure – a new experience – and I got it. I wanted to see how a super-talented director worked in this modern age – and I did. I’d worked with the one director I considered to be close to genius status, John Huston. The great thing about him was that he always listened to your doubts, ideas, anything, and you could always speak to him. Lars was a horse of an entirely different color. He spoke English fluently but he was not easy to communicate with during shooting hours. He was totally focused on his work and the technical problems he had to deal with while setting up the scene, all the while carrying this enormous harness and camera.

  The time spent in Sweden was difficult for me as I was away from my little Sophie. I had become very attached to her, as is my wont with all the dogs I have had. With her it was even more so because, being so small, she snuggles. And I love that. She can snuggle in a way that a big dog can’t. I called the trainer, who was keeping her while I was away, to see how she was – did she miss me? The trainer said she was very happy, whereupon my voice dropped. She continued with, ‘You don’t want her to be sad, do you?’ My retort was, ‘Yes, a little bit. Why should I be the only one who is sad?�
� Crazy, right? And yet …

  Time passed and the cast all became closer – it was like boarding school, in a way. Meeting for dinner every night and sometimes for breakfast at 6:00 a.m. and for lunch on the stage next to our set. We were lucky to have such a compatible group. Movies on location have similar happenings. Come to think of it, most locations when isolated closely resemble one another. If the location is a city, you are lucky – there is other life present and available. People fall into groups – usually two to four. There is almost always one romance or two, or more depending on the obvious. Some relationships end with the last shot of the day or the closing night party. Amazingly some go further, even moving toward permanence. I was taught by Bogie (so much in my life goes back to him) never to mix business with pleasure. Let your status be known subtly from day one – not available. Unless, of course, you are. I’ve been involved with co-workers in the past and have found it is always a mistake. In any case, the question never arose. Different generations – different languages – different ways of expressing oneself – definitely different senses of humor (or lack thereof).

  In the case of Dogville, living in the village of Trollhattan in Sweden, in the dead of winter with very little sun and short days, the atmosphere wasn’t loaded with gaiety. Not to overlook the fact that the plot of the movie itself was very dark which did not encourage laughter.

  With all the negatives, I would not have missed it. The result was a controversial – Lars is always controversial, a good thing and he’s never dismissed, also a good thing – but very interesting and worthwhile movie. At the time, not having seen a foot of film, I was filled with anxiety at how the final cut would turn out.

  More than one year later, Dogville was to be screened on the opening day of the New York Film Festival. I had to go through it with the same trepidation. I would finally see Lars’s complete vision brought to life. And get a glimpse of myself as a character in that town. After the march down the red carpet with my faithful, constantly supportive manager, Johnnie Planco, by my side, we were led to our reserved seats in the theatre. Sitting there in the dark, I squirmed at first, not really knowing what to expect. Seeing our set, our town with the streets clearly drawn, I found myself relaxing a bit as I became caught up in the story, the characters – and except for an occasional twinge when I saw myself, I really liked it. But I mean really liked it, not having expected to. It’s part of one of the most fascinating aspects of movie making. Even while watching the finished product, memories and flashes of moments during the shooting pop up in your mind. Pictures of moments shared with cast members, visions of Lars in his amazing camera contraption, awareness of the musical score, the narration, all parts of the movie, not jarring, all what Lars intended, all completing the picture.

  When the lights went up, I felt quite fine. Always somewhat nervous at events like this but relieved to feel good about the whole. People congratulating me on my performance – incongruous considering my very small contribution. Nevertheless, I was glad to be in it. It was worth the seven weeks in Sweden and definitely worth my newly formed friendships. Also there was the wonder that I felt and the amazement that sixty years as an active participant in movie making has afforded me the privilege of not only viewing but actively working in a new, original approach to film making. Confirming for me how right I was to know from the age of ten or twelve that I had to be an actress.

  Not long ago, I went back to the same places in Sweden to be in the second film of von Trier’s trilogy – Manderlay. The part was small but I was able to work with Lars once more and to see him on a different set – different theme – still ensemble acting, which I enjoy. Surprisingly there were the same trailers as in Dogville – same studio – same Trollhattan to live in, but a completely renovated suite this time, done in my favorite blue and white. Funnily enough, it made me want to stay there a little longer. An oddly nostalgic feeling.

  Dogville was quite well received. Mixed reviews but attention and respect for Lars were always there. Unhappily it could not erase or stop the onslaught of friends dying that began in 2002. I’ll start with Adolph Green, the man who jumped into my life on a musical (what else?) night at Ira Gershwin’s home.

  Adolph’s energy. His incredible sense of the outrageous. His teeth, which always shone brightly and he had many of them. Our friendship began more than fifty years ago. He was a complete – a true – original, a genuine eccentric. He had a personality so strong, so infectious, so endearing that he demanded attention. When he invaded your life, and that’s exactly what he did, you had to let him in. You wanted to – you knew a life force had entered your life and there was no getting away from it. He knew the title and cast of every movie ever made, from silent films to this day. He knew every note of classical music. He would sing it – dum-dic-a-dum, etc. He knew every note of show tunes and their lyrics. He knew books of all varieties and their authors. He was mind-boggling. I don’t know how he knew all these things, and he was neither pompous nor condescending about his knowledge. He was the personification of laughter and, at times, infuriatingly stubborn while at the same time being the sweetest, most loving husband, father and friend. I knew about the first two from observation and from being very close to his wife, Phyllis Newman. I almost felt related and was known as Number Two Wife. A joke, don’t you know? The last two years of Adolph’s life were no fun for him – he’d lost much of his hearing and vision. But that didn’t stop him from not only partaking of life but living it to the fullest. We attended an event on Long Island – many round tables full of friends and food. Adolph was sitting next to me. I was talking to someone on the other side of our table when I heard Adolph – loud and clear – say, ‘Just because I am blind and deaf is no reason not to talk to me.’ You see, the humor remained and that statement was as close to a complaint as I ever heard from this funny, adorable, life-enhancing visitor from another planet. All of us – friends, families, most especially children – think about him and talk about him very, very often. He had an uncanny connection with the young – why not? He was forever young himself. Steve and Leslie had known him from childhood – Sam, too, all through his growing up years. Adolph and Phyllis’s son, Adam, and Sam grew up together. Sam always felt close to Adolph, understood and connected with him. Adolph will crop up on an almost daily basis in general conversation. Often when you needed early film information, anything connected to music, Adolph had the answer. And every scene brings laughter and the sight of Adolph who could never be mistaken for anyone else. I often have the sense that he’ll come skipping around the corner and we’ll pick up where we left off, there was so much life and unpredictability in him. Remembrance saves me where friends are concerned. In any case, there is no forgetting Adolph Green – not that I’d want to. I just couldn’t. His imprint is permanent. I see him almost daily, as I do with all those I have loved and lost.

  I was just beginning to be able to live without the presence of Adolph when along came the shock in 2003 of the death of playwright Peter Stone. Peter was robust, never sick, and seventy-three years old – not considered old by anyone’s standards. Another friendship of more than forty years. We worked together twice – once with Robert Preston in a short story written by Peter for television and secondly on a larger scale, on Woman of the Year for Broadway. Both successful and happy experiences. He was far and away the best toastmaster in my world. Always funny, always the right words in the right place at the right time. He toasted me at every major honor I received in New York or Washington. I always felt safe with Peter. He never went for the jugular. If he cared about you, he was there totally. His opinions about plays and players were loud and clear. No pussyfooting around. I disagreed with him many times – we butted heads a bit – but that never put more than a momentary nick in our friendship and affection for one another.

  I was in his and his wife Mary’s country home one weekend. Peter appeared in outdoor gear – cap, gloves, portable Sony with accompanying ear aides, walking shoes, etc. In all th
e years and all the weekends I’d spent in that house, I’d never seen Peter partake of anything athletic except tennis, which he loved. Upon my inquiry, ‘What’s going on?’, he said his doctor had told him he had to walk an hour each day. He seemed slightly annoyed that this walk would take him away from his reading and phone calls – interrupt our regular lunch at Estins in Amagansett. He was, however, resigned, saying, ‘I don’t want to – but I have to. I’m fine walking downhill, it’s uphill that’s the toughie.’ And that was that. I asked no more questions. He volunteered no more information, although the following morning reading the Sunday papers – me on the couch – Peter in his usual chair in this cozy, relaxed, ideal country living room – I suddenly became aware he was on the phone to his doctor. Most unusual. But I said nothing. Only the next morning, as I was leaving to return to New York, I said my goodbyes to Mary and on turning to Peter, I felt an air of vulnerability around him that led me to stroke his face and tell him, ‘Take care of your sweet self.’ ‘I will,’ and I left. I will never forget that picture of us standing by the screen door. And it is only now that I realize that was the last time I saw him.

  I spoke to him a few times when he was in the hospital. Our final exchanges were: Peter, ‘I think I’ve turned the corner.’ Me, ‘Great! Then I can come see you.’ Peter, ‘Yes, and thanks for calling. It means a lot to me.’ So from having slight breathing problems – nothing serious – it turned out to be life threatening. In a month’s time the breathing became more and more acute and the next thing I knew, he was gone. Gone? Not Peter. Not possible. So fast. So abrupt. So unfair.

  I see him everywhere. I miss him. I miss the gleam in his eye – where can we find the laughter – the wit – the intelligence. Peter was so intelligent as to frighten me at times, but beneath his bluster he was super-sensitive, caring, insecure, politically wise, involved in all things environmental and anything favoring protecting birds, animals, endangered species, the world. So now he rests in a corner of the town of Amagansett that he loved, next to his friend Alan Pakula. I raise my glass – I have no toast – only to say, ‘You were valuable. You made a difference.’ And, as far as I’m concerned, ‘You’re still here, now and always.’