Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  At that point, Montgomery realized that Bogie was putting him on. He excused himself and walked away. It would not be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between the two men.

  When her screen test was over, and Bogie had delivered Davis back to Ruthie, he hadn’t heard the last of her. For some reason, even though it was obvious that she held him in disdain, she’d found a kindred spirit in him and called him with frequent bulletins.

  The following morning, Davis phoned him in all her rage and fury. “That God damn faggot, James Whale. Moby Dick, or so he thinks. I’m out of the lead. He’s cast me in some dull part as the sister. I’m repeating the part I played in Bad Sister. The mouse role. He cast Mae Clarke instead.”

  “Your day will come.”

  “Christ,” Davis screeched. “Now she’s fucking James Cagney. I guess it takes a whore to play a whore. In the film, I’m supposed to be nice to Clarke’s character. How can I be nice to her when I hate the bitch’s guts?”

  “Because you’re an actress,” he said, “and a damn good one. If the part calls for it, you can do it.”

  That seemed to please her. The next morning she was on the phone again as if she had to give him a daily bulletin. “Whale is out of his mind,” she charged. “There was a scene yesterday that called for a chamber pot to be placed under the bed. For realism, Whale insisted that the pot be half full of the real stuff. Christ, I hope they cut that scene out of the movie.”

  “You getting on with Mae okay?” he asked.

  “I guess,” she said. “I stand on the set watching her emote. I mouth her lines, saying them like they should be spoken and acted while she fucks up every scene.”

  “I hear this Whale is a pretty good director,” he said, always wanting to take an opposing point of view.

  “Whale is no director. He’s a traffic cop. He handles entrances and exits— and that’s it.”

  The next morning, Davis had changed her opinion of Whale. He was not only brilliant, but “one of the greatest directors ever to hit Hollywood.”

  “”What brought this on?” he asked.

  “He wants me for the lead in Frankenstein.”

  He laughed. “Now that’s a part you can play: The Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Remind me never to talk to you again, you son of a bitch.” She slammed down the phone.

  Forgetting her promise never to speak to him again, she called the following week. “That God damn faggot said I came off horribly in my screen test for Frankenstein.” She seemed hysterical. “He said I’m totally wrong for the part. What a cocksucker he is. I’m off the picture.”

  “Who’s getting the part?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “Christ, would you believe Mae Clarke? She’s so bad in Waterloo Bridge, he’s giving her Frankenstein. If he wasn’t a queer, I’d swear he was sleeping with the bitch. Whale can’t see talent if it were a roaring truck coming down the road about to run over the slime. Christ, I can’t stand queers.”

  “Now, Bette,” he said, “You must learn to co-exist.”

  “So I do,” she said. “But it’s God damn hard putting up with them. I dread the day when I’ll have to play a love scene with one of them and let them kiss me, considering where their mouths have been. Mae Clarke said that there are men who actually stick their tongues up men’s assholes. Have you ever heard of that?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” he said archly.

  “Oh, Bogart,” she said. “You’re such a kidder. You probably do that yourself.” For the second time in just a few days, she slammed down the phone on him.

  But it wasn’t the last he’d hear of Bette Davis.

  ***

  The tough, one-eyed director, Raoul Walsh, called Bogie the next morning, telling him he’d been cast in the new Fox picture, Women of All Nations. Bogie was hopeful until Walsh informed him that he was playing the “seventh lead,” in a film that would once again team Victor McLaglen with Edmund Lowe. They’d be reprising their roles of Flagg and Quirt which had brought them such acclaim in What Price Glory?, which had originally been filmed as a silent in 1926 with Walsh himself as director,

  Bogie remembered how the director of A Devil With Women, Irving Cummings, had hoped that the team of McLaglen/Bogart would prove so successful that they’d be cast together in several more films. No such luck. With box office revenues down because of the Depression, Fox was dipping into remakes of its past successes to sell tickets—hence, the cameras would be rolling once again on that rugged duo of McLaglen and Lowe.

  “Who are the dames in the picture?” Bogie asked Walsh.

  “Greta Nissen and Fifi D’Orsay,” the director said abruptly before ordering Bogie to report to wardrobe tomorrow at seven o’clock in the morning.

  Bogie hoped that his role might have some possibilities. As a fringe benefit, he thought he might be able to seduce that Scandinavian beauty, Nissen, and perhaps that little French cutie, Fifi D’Orsay.

  That afternoon he was still hopeful when Fox sent a messenger over to deliver the script to him. He was surprised to see that the screenplay had been written by a man he knew. Barry Conners had also written the three-act comedy, Hell’s Bells, in which Bogie had appeared on Broadway with Olive May and Shirley Booth. With the latter, he’d performed both on and off the stage, as he so fondly recalled.

  After reading the script—he was hardly able to find his part—Bogie was bitterly disappointed. There was virtually nothing for him to do. Any one of a thousand, even 10,000, actors—could have played the part, such as it was. Bogie felt that it was more of “a brief appearance” than a role. It was clearly a showcase for Lowe and McLaglen, but not for him.

  “It’s nothing but a stupid caper,” Bogie told Kenneth when he went next door to have a drink with him. “My career at Fox is nose-diving by the minute.& They could get some actor to do this for $25 a week instead of $750.”

  Bogie’s only good luck that day was when he returned to his apartment to find a personal letter waiting for him from New York. At first he thought it was from his Mary. The letter was from Helen instead, informing him that she was coming to Los Angeles where she’d booked a bungalow at the Garden of Allah.

  Even though the lesbian play, The Captive, had been closed on a charge of “indecency” by the New York police, there was talk of mounting a production in Los Angeles. To Bogie’s amazement, Samuel Goldwyn had expressed interest in acquiring the film rights, even though the Will Hays office had forbidden the depiction of any type of “perversion” on the screen.

  The next morning after wardrobe had fitted Bogie into a crisp new marine uniform, he stared at his figure in the mirror, thinking he looked rather striking.

  When he ran into the director, Walsh, he looked Bogie up and down. “You come off as queer bait—perfect for what I had in mind.”

  Bogie’s part didn’t even merit a dressing room. He was assigned a locker room with the rest of the cast, which included the grips and the assistant cameraman. Since his part was so small, Bogie didn’t even know why he was needed on the set.

  There weren’t even any women to flirt with, as Greta Nissen and that cute little Fifi D’Orsay were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Walsh had them lined up for his casting couch that day.

  As Bogie stood idly by with nothing to do, and feeling like a jerk, one of the co-stars of the film, Bela Lugosi, came up to him and introduced himself. “I saw you and Tracy in Up the River, ” Lugosi said. “You guys did a good job.”

  “Count Dracula himself, I presume,” Bogie said. Since neither actor had any work to do that day, Lugosi invited Bogie to the commissary for some black coffee.

  Bogie relaxed with this Hungarian actor, born Be’la Ferenc Dezso Blaski in 1882 in the small town—now Romanian—of Lugosi.

  When Lugosi ordered coffee from the waiter, Bogie said, “Now you’ve spoiled my illusion. I thought you drank only blood.”

  As coffee was served, Lugosi confided in Bogie after he’d promised not to tell Louella Parsons,
“I really wanted a career in operettas. I have a remarkable singing voice.”

  “Blood curdling, I bet,” Bogie said, kidding him.

  “Actually before I had success as a monster,” Lugosi said, “I scored well portraying Jesus Christ. Would you believe I was also a sensation playing Romeo in Budapest in 1911?”

  “About you, I could believe anything,” Bogie said. “You’re a remarkable man. I caught you on Broadway back in ’27. I don’t care how many roles you’ve played, you’re stuck with that vampire count bit. No one does it better than you.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s both a blessing and my curse. I made up a will the other day. In my will, I left instructions that I be buried in my Count Dracula cape.”

  Bogie laughed. “That means you’ll be back! No grave will hold you.”

  “Speaking of men who are vampires,” Lugosi said, “here’s one of the stars of the picture coming toward us. Edmund Lowe. I’ll introduce you, but make sure your fly is buttoned.”

  “Don’t you look the spiffy marine!” said the slick-haired, debonair screen star.

  “Don’t you look like something yourself?” Bogie said, pausing to take in the costume of a top-hatted, silk-caped magician.

  “With that cape and that hat, are you trying to take over my role as Count Dracula?” Lugosi asked.

  “Actually, I’m doing a wardrobe test for this upcoming film, The Spider, ” Lowe said. “I’m being considered for the lead.” Lowe would win the coveted role that very year, his character in The Spider inspiring the look of the comic-strip character, Mandrake the Magician. “Now I’ve got to get to my dressing room and slip into my marine drag.”

  “At least you have a dressing room,” Bogie said. “Walsh has demoted me to the men’s locker room.”

  “By all means, share my dressing room,” Lowe said. “C’mon,” I’m going there now.”

  The art director on the picture, David Hall, came over to ask Lowe something. He excused himself momentarily to speak to Hall.

  “If you guys are going to share a dressing room, watch yourself around that one,” Lugosi warned Bogie in a whisper.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Bogie said. “He’s married to the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.”

  “ Everybody in Hollywood has to watch himself or herself around Lilyan Tashman.” With that enigmatic statement, Lugosi turned and headed& to his own dressing room.

  When he’d finished his conversation with the art director, Lowe turned to Bogie. His fingers tightened around Bogie’s arm. “Let’s head for my dressing room now. I may even find some whiskey there.”

  “You’re my kind of guy,” Bogie said.

  Lowe’s fingers tightened even firmer around Bogie’s arm. “And you’re my kind of guy too. I always believe that when you need a job done, call out the marines.”

  ***

  Edmund Lowe was most solicitous.

  After he’d dressed in his own marine uniform, he made a slight suggestion about how Bogie could artfully diminish the impact of his scarred lip with a clever use of makeup. “Believe me, I know more about makeup than Marlene Dietrich,” he said. “We actors have to do for ourselves.”

  Lowe even invited Bogie to accompany him to the set. He said all the things that Bogie had been wanting to hear since leaving New York. “You are a marvelous screen presence. You could be a big star different from all others. It’s the directors who are stupid.”

  “I guess they don’t like my ugly mug,” Bogie said.

  “That’s nonsense,” Lowe said. “You are very, very handsome, and very, very sexy. I read somewhere that the New York critics considered you as handsome as Valentino.”

  “They must have had George Raft in mind,” Bogie said modestly.

  “Actually I don’t think Raft looks like Valentino at all,” Lowe said. “You’ve got sex appeal. A heavy dose.” He leaned over in a confidential whisper to Bogie. “And from what I hear, you’re packing a powerful weapon in that tight uniform of yours.”

  Bogie was flattered but also a bit embarrassed. “Who in hell have you been talking to.”

  “I have many credible sources,” Lowe said enigmatically. “You’ve just hit Hollywood and already some of the top stars have fallen for you.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘fallen,’” Bogie said. “More accurately, they’ve bedded me and then forgotten me.”

  “I know Stanwyck went for you,” Lowe said, “But now she’s chasing after my darling Lilyan.”

  “With a woman as gorgeous as Lilyan Tashman, I bet I know where you are at night,” Bogie said.

  “You are a truly adorable, darling man,” Lowe said before being summoned to the set. “I’m going to try to get Walsh to make your part bigger on this picture.” Before heading off, he paused. “I’ve got one better. I want you to be the co-star of my next movie.”

  “Make me your Spider Boy?” Bogie asked.

  Lowe seemed amused. “No, not that. I have various roles in mind for you.& I think you can be developed into one of the screen’s most romantic leading men.”

  “You mean, the type who gets the gal in the final reel?” Bogie asked.

  “Exactly,” Lowe said. “Scar or not, you’ve got the most sensuous lips. I like the way you always keep them wet. Dietrich knows that trick too.”

  “With me, it’s not deliberate,” Bogie said. “I salivate a lot.”

  “It would be like dying and going to heaven to get worked over by that succulent mouth of yours.” As if catching himself, he quickly added. “It would be any girl’s dream, I’m sure.”

  “I was feeling pretty low today until I met Mr. Lowe himself,” Bogie said. “I think I’ll call you ‘High’ instead. You’ve made me feel real good. And thanks for letting me share your dressing room. I don’t feel like a third-class citizen any more.”

  “I’ve never met an actor in Hollywood I liked instantly like I do you. I’ve got a great idea. If you’re not busy tomorrow night, would you come over and have dinner with Lilyan and me? I know she’ll find you as fascinating as I do.”

  “I’d love to,” Bogie said. “Sounds like my kind of evening. No red-blooded man in his right mind would turn down an evening with Lilyan. She’s beautiful.”

  “What about me?” Lowe asked. “Am I chopped liver?”

  “Not at all,” Bogie said, realizing that no vain actor liked to be slighted. “Not chopped liver at all. More like a juicy T-bone steak.”

  “You’ve got that right, baby cakes,” Lowe said before heading out to face Walsh’s direction.

  ***

  In his grim and bleak apartment, Bogie found a note from Raft. He’d come into some money and was moving out. He thanked him for his hospitality.

  Next day on the set of Women of All Nations, in their shared dressing room, Bogie felt uncomfortable stripping off his military uniform under the focused stares of Lowe. But after a few uncomfortable minutes, he decided “what the hell” and stripped down, as needed, anyway. He wasn’t really an exhibitionist, but the actor in him appreciated the approval of an audience. Maybe all those stories about Lowe being a homosexual were true, and maybe they weren’t. He was married to one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, Lilyan Tashman.

  Having gone through a marriage to Helen Menken, Bogie knew that a wedding band didn’t mean a God damn thing in the theater or in Hollywood. After the dust had settled on his former marriage, Bogie was convinced that Helen preferred women. Even so, he fully expected to bed her when she reached Hollywood—no doubt at her bungalow at the Garden of Allah.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring a date to your place tonight?” Bogie asked Lowe, as he buttoned up his fly.

  “My Lilyan and I have already arranged a surprise date for you,” Lowe said.

  “I hope not some dog you’re trying to push off on me,” Bogie said, almost meaning it.

  “Lilyan is a connoisseur not only of haute couture, but also of the world’s most beautiful women,” he said s
omewhat enigmatically. “Your date tonight one day will take her place alongside some of the world’s most enchanting women. The likes of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy.”

  “You do like to tease a country boy from New York,” Bogie said. “I’m sure my date is Marie Dressler.”

  “Time will tell, my dear, lovely boy,” Lowe said. He hovered near Bogie, who at first feared that the actor was going to kiss him. Instead Lowe took his hand and held it gently. “Until tonight, you adorable creature. Lilyan is dying to meet you. She’s going to wear her sexiest outfit, a little thing she picked up in Paris.”

  “She’s your wife,” Bogie said. “Why would she wear something sexy for me? Even assuming your marriage is as open as mine, you said I already have a date.”

  “Listen, pet, let’s don’t go into logistics right now,” Lowe said. “The night hasn’t even begun. We must go forward into that good night and welcome its surprises.” With that parting comment, he was out the door.

  Bogie stood looking confused. He felt that he was heading for either the best or the most disastrous party of his Hollywood life. “Let the night unfold,” he said before checking his appearance in the mirror.

  As he would confide in Kenneth the next day, he kissed his own image in the mirror. He felt that that kind of self-enchantment qualified him as a narcissist like every other actor in Hollywood. Giving himself a final smooch, he said, “Go for it, you good-looking mother-fucker.”

  ***

  Even though it had been announced as just a small, intimate dinner party, Lowe greeted Bogie at the door in full evening dress.

  In his dark suit, Bogie said, “I didn’t know it was black tie.”

  “Come in, dear boy,” the slick-haired actor said, taking his hand and guiding him into the foyer. “Dressed, and especially undressed, you’re most welcome at the humble Tashman/Lowe abode.”