Bogart

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  BOGART: In Search of My Father

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Introduction

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  FILMOGRAPHY

  PHOTOS

  Bogart: In Search of My Father

  By Stephen Bogart with Gary Provost

  Copyright 2012 by Stephen Bogart

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1995.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  BOGART

  In Search of My Father

  Stephen Humphrey Bogart with Gary Provost

  For my father, my three children, Jamie, Richard and Brooke

  And in memory of

  Gary Provost

  1944–1995

  Foreword

  It is a long road he has travelled since that day on January 6, 1949, when Stephen Humphrey Bogart entered the world. Having firsthand and intimate knowledge of that time, I would say his first eight years of being Humphrey Bogart’s son were happy years. After that, with the death of his father, he learned too soon about endings. Growing up as the son of Humphrey Bogart, with all the curiosity of others that would bring, and his yearning to somehow emerge with an identity of his own, was quite a different matter. Having had to cope with the indescribable pain of loss, the confusion and anger that accompanies it, the sense of isolation from his two-parent peers—all throughout his most impressionable, formative, and needy years—must have presented obstacles and miseries beyond comprehension. He did not have the good fortune of time spent with his father or that most precious thing—memories—happy memories—to comfort him.

  Added to that came the rebirth of Humphrey Bogart; the discovery of him by new generations elevated Bogie to an icon, to cult status (a status, incidentally, that now encompasses the world).

  But it began while Steve was in his teens.

  So it is no surprise that Steve dropped the curtain—not only to forget the pain of loss—but to try to find a place for himself.

  For many years I have been hoping and praying he would find a way to come to terms with being his father’s son, would get to know him, and perhaps begin to understand the rare qualities that Bogie had as a man—why he represents the kind of character and integrity so hard to find in today’s world, and why he has become such an important figure to so many.

  It cannot have been easy for Steve to face the unearthing of the past, to face for the first time the reality of his denial, to face himself. But he has done it. These are his words, his feelings, his discovery.

  Though I cannot say I fully agree with each of his conclusions, I am happy and proud that he has taken the time and made this extraordinary effort. I am filled with admiration for his accomplishment. And for me, perhaps, what is most satisfying in these pages is that I think he is now ready to be Humphrey Bogart’s son, with pride, and to pass on all that he has learned and feels to his children.

  I respect him, love him, and am proud to be his mother. I am thankful that he has opened his heart and mind to what must have been a terribly painful—though I hope enlightening and rewarding—time.

  Lauren Bacall

  Introduction

  When I was a kid I had it all. Just like Bogie and Bacall. In fact, I had them, too. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. They were my parents.

  In the early 1950s we lived in a beautiful fourteen-room house at 232 South Mapleton Drive in Holmby Hills, which is a pricey little slice of real estate between Bel Air and Beverly Hills. It was a great house, two stories of whitewashed brick, hidden from the street by hedges and trees. At the entrance to the driveway there was a two-foot brick wall. On it my father had hung a sign: DANGER, CHILDREN AT PLAY.

  For years the house was only partially furnished. The living room, especially, always looked incomplete, as if the family had just moved in. I’m not sure why, exactly. I think it was because my mother had promised Dad that if he came up with the money for the house she would furnish it slowly. Dad really wasn’t interested in having a big house. He was the kind of guy who could be happy with two rooms, as long as one of them had a bar in it.

  We also had a tennis court, a four-car garage, a lanai with wrought-iron tables and chairs, and an expansive lawn where my little sister, Leslie, and I used to do somersaults and play on the jungle gym that my father had bought us. After we moved in, Mother installed a swimming pool, where even today you can see the footprints that Leslie and I left in the concrete.

  Along with the two movie stars and the two kids, there were three dogs named Harvey, Baby, and George. To serve us all there was a maid, a butler, a gardener, and a cook. Just as well. My mother was no cook, and my father was no handyman.

  I must have thought that everybody lived this way. Sybil Christopher, who was Mrs. Richard Burton when I was a kid, says she took me to see Hans Christian Andersen when I was six years old and she remembers that when we walked up to the balcony of one of the huge old opulent movie theaters in Los Angeles, I asked her, “Whose house is this?”

  The early fifties were an idyllic time and I have many fond memories of Mapleton Drive. But when I think of the house, I think, too, of my greatest regret, the fact that I had so little time there with my father. It is a regret made more poignant in recent years by the fact that I ignored his memory for most of my life. I resented Humphrey Bogart for reasons I only now understand, and for almost four decades I avoided learning about him, talking about him, and thinking about him. It was only with the marriage to my second wife, Barbara, in 1984, and with the birth of our two children, Richard and Brooke, that I began to pull from my shoulder a chip the size of Idaho that had been there since the death of my dad when I was eight.

  I think in the early days of our marriage Barbara was shocked when she began to realize that I knew less about my father than many of his fans. Here I was, telling my new wife that the most important thing to me was family, and I couldn’t even score well on a Bogie trivia test at the back of a magazine.

  It’s not as though nobody had ever urged me to find out about my father. Mother had been doing it for years. But you know how it is when your mother tells you that you should do something. It’s practically a guarantee that you won’t do it.

  I might have gone on forever, fleeing my father’s ghost at every turn. But Barbara wouldn’t let me. She understood how I was feeling about it, understood certainly better than I did, and she didn’t try to change my feelings. She simply showed me how important it was to know who my father was if I really wanted to understand who I was. She let me see that just because I didn’t want to glorify my father, that didn’t mean I had to ignore him.

  “Find out about your father,” she said. “Talk to your mother. Talk to his friends. I want our children to know about their grandfather.”

  And so I beg
an to read about my father. I delved, reluctantly at first, back into my memories of him. And I visited people who knew him. I talked to people he did business with, like Sam Jaffe, his agent, and Jess Morgan, one of his business managers. I talked to people who had played in movies with him, like Katharine Hepburn and Rod Steiger. I talked to some of his writer friends, like Alistair Cooke and Art Buchwald. And I talked to family friends, like Carolyn Morris, and people who had known him briefly, like Dominick Dunne, and friends who had written about him, like Joe Hyams.

  Perhaps if I were not Humphrey Bogart’s son, but just some guy writing about Bogie, I would have spent more time with Lauren Bacall than with anyone else. But she’s my mother. I already know her opinions on the subject. She helped me a great deal, but ultimately she wanted me to do this without having her as a crutch. But I think Mom is pleased. My father has become a character of folklore, and there are so many contradictory stories about him, that I needed to hear what a lot more people other than my mother had to say. Also, Bogart lived more than three-quarters of his life before he met Bacall. So if there are mistakes in this book, and I’m sure there are, don’t blame Mom.

  And don’t blame the other people I spoke to. It is the nature of a legend like Bogie that the stories about him get embellished, relocated, even folded in with other stories. The precise truth is always elusive. But there are many people who took the time to tell me the truth about my father as they knew it, and I want to thank them:

  Dominick Dunne, Carolyn Morris, Alistair Cooke, Adolph Green, Rod Steiger, Katharine Hepburn, Phil Gersh, Jess Morgan, Sam Jaffe, George Axelrod, Art Buchwald, Joe Hyams, Sybil (Burton) Christopher, Gloria Stuart, Julius Epstein, Bruce Davison, William Wellman, Jr., Joe Hayes, my sister, Leslie Bogart, and, of course, my mother.

  I want to thank, too, the many celebrities and writers whose written words have led me to greater knowledge of my father. Special thanks go to Joe Hyams for Bogie and Nate Benchley for Humphrey Bogart. Thanks go also to Katharine Hepburn for The Making of The African Queen, Janet Leigh for There Really Was A Hollywood, Richard Schickel for Legends: Humphrey Bogart, Melvyn Bragg and Sally Burton for Richard Burton: A Life, 1925–1984, John Huston for An Open Book, Gerold Frank for Judy, Bob Thomas for Golden Boy, Charles Higham for Audrey: The Life of Audrey Hepburn, Vera Thompson for Bogie and Me, Edward G. Robinson for All My Yesterdays, and Lawrence J. Quirk for The Passionate Life of Bette Davis.

  And thanks also to the writers, too numerous to name, who wrote about my dad in a number of publications over the years. Among the most helpful ones were the New York Times, the London Daily Mirror, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Hollywood Reporter, the Los Angeles Times, the Saturday Evening Post, the Chicago Tribune, the Hollywood Citizen News, the Associated Press, American Film, Esquire, Playboy, the New York Post, Atlantic Monthly, and the New York Herald.

  Also for their help in various ways in making this book possible I want to thank Chris Keane, Leslie Epstein, Nushka Resnikoff, Ted Eden, Bill Baer, Jeff Alan, Bob Pronvost, Warner Brothers, and the library staffs at the American Film Institute and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

  I want to thank my agent, Susan Crawford, of the Crawford Literary Agency for putting me with the right people at the right time.

  And a special thanks to Audrey LaFehr at Dutton for having faith in the book, for her support along the way, and for her editorial wisdom in the final stages.

  *

  It is summer of 1993. I am in California.

  I have been thinking about my father, Humphrey Bogart, for some time now. I want to write a book about him, but the words have been coming to me only with great difficulty. I have learned about my father, but, unaccountably, I am still reluctant to speak about him, and about what it is like to be his son.

  My mother, Lauren Bacall, is in California, too. We have made arrangements to tour the house in Holmby Hills where we lived when I was a kid. The house now is the home of producer Ray Stark and he has graciously agreed to let my mother and me visit.

  But now it is a few days before that scheduled tour with my mother. I am alone. I feel compelled to get up early and drive my rental car around the streets of Los Angeles. Inevitably, I drive to the house at 232 South Mapleton Drive. I know that returning to that house will be a powerful experience and I want it to be private. The truth is I want to see the house without my mother. I don’t want her explaining things to me, altering my perceptions.

  It is still early morning when I pull up beside the house. My first sight of it is more powerful than I expect. Almost immediately, I feel myself shaking. Though we lived in that house for some months after Bogie died, I feel now as if my father, the house, and my childhood were all wrenched away from me in a single violent moment. I do not cry, but I am overcome with emotion. I know that what fills my heart is sorrow, but it feels like fear. It is not a fear that I want to run from. It is something that I want to face. I want to rush out of my car, rap on the back door of the house, tell the people who live there that I am Bogie’s son, and beg them to let me run from room to room.

  But I don’t really want to bother the people who live there. So I sit in my car for a long time, feeling the waves of emotion sweep over me. As I feel the feelings, I also watch myself have the emotions. I have always been able to detach myself from my feelings this way, playing both the patient and the therapist. I think my father did this, too.

  “What are you feeling, Steve?” I ask myself.

  “Oh, just a little afraid and sad.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No, it’s no big deal. It was thirty-seven years ago, for God’s sake.”

  “I see.”

  Ten minutes later my hands are still gripping the steering wheel. I stare out at the house, as if it, or I, could do something about the past. From where I am parked I can see the patio where Bacall sometimes served drinks. The pool, where I used to float in a yellow tube that was shaped like a duck. The door from the garage into the kitchen, where my friends waited for me. Soon I became self-conscious, thinking someone will call the police and report a stranger casing one of the expensive houses of Holmby Hills. I decide to leave. Still feeling shaky and scared, I drive off, thinking, God, that’s the place, that’s where my happy childhood ended on January 14, 1957.

  1

  Mr. Bogart said, “Listen, kid, there are twelve commandments,” and then he ordered a drink.

  My mother is a woman who usually gets what she wants. And, in the late 1940s, she was resolved that her husband, Humphrey Bogart, would be a father. So Bogie and Bacall went to work on getting Bacall pregnant. They visited the doctor to see if all the plumbing was in good working order. The equipment was all functional, but the sperm count was a bit low. So Dad started taking vitamins, and his body had to be upgraded a bit because, though he had been a fine athlete at one time, he was now close to fifty and had made a mess of his body with cigarettes and alcohol. The doctor also told Bogie and Bacall to relax, everything would work out.

  Though my father was not as oversexed as many well-known movie actors of his time, all indications are that he did enjoy sex. He once said that sex was the most fun you could have without laughing. And I don’t think he really wanted his sex life complicated by talk of ovulation and uteral linings, and all the other unromantic considerations that arise when couples are trying to have a baby. Still, except for a small amount of grumbling, he went along with the idea of being a daddy. This would be a first for him. Dad had been married three times before, to Helen Menken, Mary Philips, and Mayo Methot. All three of them had careers as actresses, and neither Dad nor his wives had ever insisted on procreation. So it is not surprising that when my mother told Bogie that she was pregnant, in the summer of 1948, he had second thoughts.

  My parents lived in a farmhouse in Benedict Canyon at the time, away from the Hollywood scene and all the “phonies” that my father abhorred. My mother says that when Dad came home from the studio that day, she met him o
utside the house and told him the glorious news. Dad got very quiet. Then he put his arm around her gently and led her into the house. He remained quiet through dinner. After dinner they had a terrible fight.

  Mother says, “It was the worst fight we ever had. Bogie was very upset. He was afraid that the baby would come between us, that our lives would not be the same. He said he didn’t marry me just so he could lose me to a child. It was horrid.”

  Like many Bogie stories, this one has two versions. There is no reason to think he would tell the press the real story, of course, but here is what he did tell a reporter some months later: “The day came when my spouse walked in the door with the words, ‘Well, the doctor says you’ll never forgive me, but I’m going to have a baby.’ I made the proper sounds of elation. Frankly, I think I did them pretty well, considering it was my first take. Then I asked her, ‘Why am I never going to forgive you? To me a baby is a baby.’ ‘Summer is coming, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m not going to be able to do much sailing, you know.’ I said, ‘Oh.’”

  He doesn’t mention the fight, but the next morning, he apologized to my mother. He told her that he was shocked at his own behavior. He had been scared, more than anything else. He said he didn’t want to lose all the happiness he had found in being married to her. He was afraid of being a lousy father, he said, and he didn’t know how he would handle a kid.

  I’m sure Bogie had all the birth defect fears that I had when I was an expectant father. Would his kid have all the fingers, toes, and ears that a kid is supposed to have? These fears probably loom even larger when you are almost fifty and expecting your first baby. Dad was full of anxiety about it all, but he also said that he did want a baby, more than anything in the world.

  After his initial panic, Bogie started to get into this baby thing. His male pals gave him a baby shower, if you can imagine that. Frank Sinatra, Paul Douglas, Mike Romanoff, and others brought diapers and rattles and even little baby dresses, because in those days you didn’t know if you would have a boy or a girl. “His shower was bigger than the one I had,” Mother says.