Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” Brown said, searching for his pants on the far side of the room. “ Quick Millions is already cast, but based on what I was just feeling, you’re entitled to a role in one of my future pictures.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Bogie said. After pouring his drink, he turned to Brown. “Now get the hell out of here, you faggot. This is where I live. I’m not running a God damn male bordello.”

  Without saying another word, Brown hurriedly dressed and left. After he’d gone, George Raft emerged from the bathroom stark naked, his black-snake in repose.

  “That Rowland boy is not a bad cocksucker,” Raft said. “I needed some relief after my disappointment today. For an hour or two yesterday, I thought I had the part of Rico in Little Caesar until I learned that ugly, fat, stumpydicked lumphead, Edward G. Robinson, was back in the role.”

  “You, play a gangster?” Bogie said mockingly. “You told me you wanted to be cast only as an American hero.”

  “What you want and what you get in life are two different things,” Raft said. “I could play Rico in my sleep. Instead of that, I’m appearing opposite your pal, Spencer Tracy, in Quick Millions. Brown gave me the part. Sally Eilers is the leading lady. You’ve heard of her: Hoot Gibson’s wife.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of her,” Bogie said, turning from the sight of the naked Raft. “Why don’t you put on some clothes? Your audition on the casting couch—or in this case, casting bed—is over.”

  Raft went into the bedroom and when he emerged, he was dressed as if ready to appear in the spotlight at Texas Guinan’s club.

  “I’ve got a date tonight,” Raft said. “Jean Harlow. Eat your heart out, babycakes.” He headed for the door.

  ***

  On the set of Bad Sister, Bette Davis sharpened her nails on her bête noir, Sidney Fox, years before she dug into the much-abused flesh of her future rival, Joan Crawford. Even though only twenty-three years old and new to Hollywood, Davis flashed the kind of fierceness that would one day become legendary when she ruled as Queen of Warner Brothers.

  Standing with Bogie to the side of the set, she said, “The director is totally insipid, the dialogue sucks. I should be playing the bad sister instead of the good one, and, to top it all, I have to wear this damn microphone in the shape of a corncob concealed in my breasts. They’ve got this large insulated wire attached to the wall. I virtually can’t move in any direction. If I turn to face Conrad Nagel, my voice fades. I guess I’ll have to speak all my lines to my stomach.”

  He laughed at that remark, finding that Davis both fascinated him but still annoyed him with all her whining. “You’re taking home a paycheck, aren’t you?”

  “Christ,” she said. “That’s one way of looking at it if you care nothing about acting.”

  At the far corner of the set, Jack Pierce, head of studio makeup, along with two assistants, hovered around Sidney Fox. Barely able to control her fury, Davis said, “All Pierce did for me is to tell me that my eyelashes are far too short, my hair is nondescript, my mouth’s too small, my neck’s too long, and my face is as fat as a Flanders mare.”

  “That Pierce,” Bogie said, finding that his assessment of Davis had been right on target. “He sure knows how to build up an actor’s confidence.”

  “Instead of offering me some help with my makeup, he hovers around Fox,” Davis said. “No doubt on orders from Laemmle. If only I were screwing the boss, things would be different. She’s certainly the court favorite. You weren’t here for her first scene this morning. Instead of the Hoosier accent the role calls for, her voice reeks of Mayfair. I could be so deliciously wanton and impudent as Marianne, the bad sister, instead of Laura, the good little Miss Two-Shoes.” She picked up a copy of The Flirt. “Here’s how Tarkington describes my character: ‘A neutral tinted figure, taken for granted, obscured, and so near being nobody at all.’” She tossed the script down in her chair. “Ain’t that a pip?”

  Interrupting her diatribe, Bogie abruptly asked her. “I’ve got to know something. Are you still a virgin?”

  She flashed her pop eyes at him. “First off, that’s none of your damn business. But if you must know, I am and I’m proud of it. I’ve never even seen a set of male genitals—not even a picture of what they’re like, and I don’t intend to until I’m good and ready.”

  Ever the needler, Bogie came up with his practical joke of the day. He’d learned that in a scene to be shot that afternoon, Davis had to change a set of diapers on a baby rented for the day by Fox Studios.

  Since Bogie was playing only a bit part and wasn’t needed on the set, he got the permission of the director, Hobart Henley, to go to a local hospital to help the casting director find the right baby. “My father’s a doctor,” he told Henley. “I grew up with babies. I’ll find one that will photograph perfectly and won’t cry or take a crap when his diaper comes off.”

  The rather dim-witted Henley bought that. On the way to the hospital, Bogie told the casting director, Derrick Staunton, his plan. He was going to bribe a nurse to direct them to the baby with the largest genitals in the hospital.

  “I thought all little boy babies have pee-pees about the same size,” Staunton said.

  “Not at all,” Bogie said. “The dick on a baby can vary as much as the dick on a grown man. They come in all sizes.”

  After a fifty-dollar bribe, the nurse said there was a baby in the ward that was “truly remarkable,” as she put it. “I can’t wait for this kid to grow up. At his age, he’s got more than my old man.” He found that the blonde-haired nurse looked and acted amazingly like Joan Blondell.

  Later, after obtaining the parents’ written consent, and even arranging a signed contract stating the terms of the day’s work with the child, Bogie drove Staunton and the mother of the baby back to the Fox lot. He hadn’t actually seen the baby’s genitals, preferring to take the nurse’s words for it. To judge from the face of the mother, who sat in the back seat of the car, holding her child, she was right proud of her son.

  That afternoon Bogie secretly assembled cast and crew for the unveiling. Henley ordered Davis onto the set and told her that she was to change the diaper of the baby. After being reassured that the diaper was clean, Davis proceeded with the scene, unfastening the safety pins and exposing the genitals of the baby.

  A deep blush came over her face, but she was enough of a trouper to see the scene through to its end. Since red turns gray in a black and white film, her face came off as battleship gray when the film was later released.

  As Bogie would later relate to Kenneth, “That kid had a set on him that would make some grown men envious.”

  At the end of the day’s shoot with Baby Freddy, Davis stormed off the set where she encountered Bogie, who was laughing as if he’d pulled off the joke of the century. She immediately understood that he was behind the baby plot, and she would forever after refer to him as “that old heckler.”

  “If you want to see an even bigger one than that,” he said to her, “try changing my diaper tonight.”

  “Mr. Bogart,” she said, “you can keep your penis in your pants. You may have experienced the charms of every broad in Hollywood, but my name is not legs-apart Sidney Fox. Humphrey Bogart will never know Bette Davis in the Biblical sense.”

  “Yes, I will,” he said. “Maybe not on this picture, maybe not even within the next few months. But at some time in our futures, Bette Davis is going to get intimately acquainted with Bogie Junior.”

  “That day will never come,” Davis said before heading to her dressing room.

  ***

  There was a hint of desperation in Tracy’s voice when he’d called. He claimed that he could not talk on the phone. Bogie had never heard Tracy sounding so flustered. Perhaps his network of romantic liaisons had backfired in some way. In direct contrast to Raft, who attracted trouble like a blonde beauty walking nude onto a construction site, Tracy tended to be very discreet.

  When he arrived on the set, Bogie learned that Rowlan
d Brown had summoned all the major players for a night shoot. He spotted Tracy sitting on the far side of the set in a director’s chair waiting to be called for his scene. He was talking to an older man. Tracy didn’t look desperate the way he’d sounded on the phone. Bogie walked up to him.

  Meeting Kenneth in the hallway of their apartment house, Bogie had a brief exchange with him. “Kay Francis wants to marry me,” he blurted out.

  “You guys would be crazy to get married,” Bogie said.

  “Would you rather I go back to New York, get Mary to charge you with desertion, help her get a divorce, and then marry me? I’m still in love with Mary.”

  “Perhaps you are,” Bogie said. “In the meantime, Miss Kay Francis herself seems to be keeping you busy. No, I don’t want you to take Mary away from me. Marry Kay then. It’ll be a good cover for both of you. Two of the biggest tramps in Hollywood pretending to be a loving man and wife.”

  “I’ll marry Kay on one condition,” Kenneth had said. “That you’ll agree to be my best man.”

  Bogie crushed out his cigarette and headed for the door. “You got yourself a deal, pal. Name the time and place, and I’ll show up. I own a tuxedo now.”

  At a night club that same evening, he encountered Bette Davis on the arm of Gilbert Roland. The handsome, dashing Roland excused himself to go to the men’s room, leaving Davis alone with Bogie at the table.

  “You’re doing very well,” Bogie said. “Gilbert Roland, no less. I understand every horny woman in Hollywood—and at least half the men—are after him.”

  “He’s mine,” she said smugly, lighting up one of her interminable cigarettes. “Of all the men I auditioned that day for the kissing scene screen test, he kissed the best and was the gentlest with me.”

  “You’ve seen your first set of male genitalia,” Bogie said, recalling that well-hung baby on the set of Bad Sister. “The question is, have you seen what a real man has hanging?”

  “A real man is something you’re not, Mr. Bogart,” she said. “If you must know, I’m going to surrender my cherry tonight, and I’ve selected Mr. Roland as the man for the job.”

  “Happy to hear that,” he said. “You’re certainly old enough to be deflowered. Personally I think a girl should be broken in well before her sixteenth birthday.”

  “You’re such a prankster and such a juvenile, at least to judge by your antics on the set, that I would think a teenager would be just about your speed, and the perfect date for you. However, I prefer a real man, and I think you’d agree that Gilbert Roland measures up in every way.”

  “How would I know?” he asked.

  “I know you want me for yourself, but you can dream on,” she said, smiling as Roland returned to the table.

  “Three’s a crowd,” Roland said to him.

  “See you around, pal,” Bogie said, hastily departing.

  The persistent ringing of a telephone brought Bogie abruptly into his new day. His head was pounding, as he reached for the phone. It was Davis. At first he thought she might be calling to report on the loss of her virginity. That would come later.

  “Ruthie has smashed up my car, and I need you to drive me to meet my new director, James Whale.”

  Later that day he’d learn that “Ruthie” was Ruth Favor Davis, the mother of Bette and a former broad-shouldered girl from Ocean Park, Maine, who’d grown up as an incorrigible tomboy insisting that her family call her “Fred.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’d love to take you. But I have a headache from hell. I’ve got no work, so I plan to sleep all day.”

  “Little wonder,” she said, considering how much you had to drink last night. “Whale is casting Waterloo Bridge, and I’m up for the lead. It’s the role of a prostitute. Before last night with Gilbert,I couldn’t have played the part. For him to get off, he likes to pretend that his girl is a Tijuana whore. In one night, I learned what it’s like to be a whore.”

  “That’s good, but I’ve got to beg off,” he said, wanting to get her off the phone.

  “The role of the Canadian soldier—the one who falls for me, not knowing I’m a prostitute—is also up for grabs. I’m asking Whale to let you test for the part. It’s not that Fox has rushed to offer you another role after Bad Sister.”

  He suddenly perked up. A chance at a part— what every out-of-work actor wanted to hear. “Give me your God damn address, and I’m on my way.” He jumped out of bed in search of a pencil. “Fox doesn’t have a God damn thing for me. I’ll be over at your place in forty minutes.”

  Heading for the shower, he noticed that Raft hadn’t come home last night.

  Hoping that the cold morning shower would erase all memories of last night, he put his face up to the spout and cleansed himself. The day didn’t hold out too many good prospects—Bette Davis who’d been fucked by only one man in her entire life, and only the night before, and Director James Whale who no doubt had been fucked by a thousand men, maybe more.

  Davis was nearly in tears, as Bogie picked her up and drove her over to Whale’s set. It wasn’t the loss of virginity that seemed to be bothering her. “Laemmle Jr. has seen Bad Sister,” she said. “I heard him tell someone that I had all the sex appeal of Slim Summerville.”

  “I didn’t know he’d even seen the picture.” Bogie said. “Do you know what he thought of my acting?”

  She reached for a cigarette and eyed him sharply. “I don’t think he even noticed you. He had eyes only for Sidney Fox.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he said, infuriated at actresses who could only talk about themselves.

  “I’d be washed up if it weren’t for the cameraman, Karl Freund,” Davis said. “He said I had lovely eyes.” Thus, the film’s photographer became the first to discover “Bette Davis Eyes.” “They’ve got me doing a stinker called Seed, with this adorable John Boles. I could really go for him.”

  “So soon after Gilbert Roland?” he teased her.

  “Last night was the most memorable of my life,” she said, puffing furiously. “Gilbert is not a man. He’s descended directly from the gods. He told me he loved me. Even that he wanted to marry me. But this morning when I called his place, a woman answered the phone. I could swear it was Constance Bennett. Gilbert wouldn’t even come to the phone.”

  “We men are no good,” he said with a slight self-mockery in his voice. “You’d better learn that sooner than later.”

  “Believe you me, Bogart, I knew that before I got on the train to Hollywood.”

  Davis quickly switched to how excited she was about the possibility of being cast as the lead in Waterloo Bridge, a play by Robert E. Sherwood that Bogie had heard about. Mary Philips herself had wanted to play the role on Broadway of the showgirl-turned-prostitute. It was a tragic story. The lead character feels that because she was once a whore she doesn’t have the right to her lover’s respect. The film ends with her suicide on Waterloo Bridge.

  As Davis went to makeup, Bogie met James Whale. “Bette told me that the role of the soldier is still open,” Bogie said. “Fox doesn’t have anything for me to do and they’re paying me by the week. I’m sure they would be happy to lend me to you. Could I test for it?”

  “Dear boy,” Whale said, patting him affectionately on the arm. “The part has just been cast. You know, it calls for a handsome leading man. The type women will swoon over. I don’t see you in such a part. Maybe character roles. A heavy perhaps.”

  “They said that about Valentino in the old days,” Bogie said. “And look what happened.”

  “My dear boy,” Whale said. “Trust me on this one. When it comes to casting, I’m never wrong. A natural instinct, I guess.”

  A fey and vapidly handsome young man emerged from Whale’s office. The director introduced him to Bogie. “Meet the male lead in Waterloo Bridge. Humphrey Bogart, this is Kent Douglass.”

  “I’m thinking of changing my name to Douglass Montgomery,” he said. “That’s Douglass with two Ss.”

  “Why don’t you do that?”
Bogie said, giving him a limp handshake. He was resentful of the actor, suspecting that he’d been sleeping with Whale as an incentive to getting the role.

  “Would you gentlemen excuse me?” Whale said. “I think Bette Davis is ready for her test.” He turned back as if to seek reassurance from Bogie. “I don’t know what makeup did to her. But when you brought her onto the set, she looked mousy. Definitely unconvincing as a prostitute. After all, who would pay out good money to go to bed with Bette Davis?”

  “Seems to me you’ve already made up your mind not to cast her,” Bogie said. “Why are you even bothering with the test?”

  “I was ordered to,” Whale said. “You do what a studio boss tells you to do. Actually I saw Mae Clarke the other night opposite Cagney in The Public Enemy. Clarke has prostitute written all over her.” He turned and left, leaving Montgomery standing there awkwardly with Bogie.

  As Bogie chatted with Montgomery, he realized that the young actor was making an assumption that he, Bogie, was also a homosexual. At the time, Montgomery was part of the growing influx of young homosexual actors arriving in Hollywood during the late Twenties and early Thirties at the birth of the Talkies. The list of gay, or at least bisexual hopefuls was growing by the day: Anderson Lawler, David Manners, Louis Mason, David Rollins, Richard Cromwell, Alexander Kirkland, Ross Alexander, John Darrow.

  “When I came out here, I thought I’d be enjoying one handsome hunk after another,” Montgomery said. “It’s not been like that at all. I’ve been sleeping with creatures from the dark lagoon. Charles Laughton. I found him disgusting. When George Cukor’s fat lips worked me over, I closed my eyes and dreamed of God, mother, and country. William Haines and Eddie Goulding weren’t so bad.” He accepted a cigarette from Bogie. “I hear you’re a good buddy of Kenneth MacKenna. I certainly wouldn’t mind a date or two with him. How’s it been with you? What ghouls have you been sleeping with, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Eyeing him squarely, Bogie was eager to report this conversation to Kenneth later in the day. “I’ve decided on another route. For casting-couch advancement, I work the female circuit: Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Norma Shearer. Dietrich is perfect, but Garbo’s feet and especially that pussy of hers are too big. And Shearer has fat ankles. The most disgusting broad I’ve ever had to fuck? Would you believe Marie Dressler?”