Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

It was traumatic for me – that night, that shock. Applause had given Len his first lead in a Broadway show, and we’d grown together in it. Nothing would be quite the same for me. It wasn’t just a show, it was a crucial portion of my life. And he had been such a strength to me, on and off the stage. He knew me so well, was aware of my weaknesses. Even after the success of Applause , I still had to fight my past life. Whatever people have made me in their heads – both from my movie career and my marriage to Bogie – is an obstacle to now. They want their memories and fantasies kept intact – they’re not interested in the person I am. Every man needs his own identity. His ego will not allow him to be thought of as an appendage to an actress. And though I have never lived my private life like that, I have not found a man secure enough in himself – grown up enough, if you will – to take his chances with me because he knows and values me as I am.

Well, there’s not a damn thing I can do about my past life. It has been lived – it is past – it has contributed largely to what I am, what might attract a man to me or interest a man in me. But it is not now – not today. I am still fighting for the right to be thought of as I am, the way it is, not as anyone else’s image or idea of what I am because of parts I played when I was nineteen. It’s been a losing battle so far, it may always be, but I won’t give up. Not then – not now – not tomorrow.

I finished my Broadway run in Applause sixteen months after it opened. Len had left – there was another Bill Sampson and I dealt with it professionally. Then a month in Europe trying unsuccessfully to reorient my head and lighten my spirits. But how can two years of unrelenting, totally demanding work, plus my mother’s death, plus my divorce – how can all that be wiped away in one month? I returned to re-rehearse for a national tour of Applause , the emotional highlight of which was playing in Los Angeles. ‘At last,’ I thought, ‘I’ll show them – ten years later – that I have talent, that I am good, that they were wrong to sluff me off.’ Opening night there was my most nervous night in all those months of playing Margo. It revealed to me once again how much importance I had placed on proving my worth – leaving my mark on that community. What did I expect – that all those who had rejected me would appear as one to beg forgiveness? They couldn’t have cared less. My friends – the real ones – came. The others didn’t, couldn’t be bothered. The theatre was too far away and their minds don’t think beyond grosses. What’s in the trade papers? Whose footprints in cement? But mine – remember? – aren’t there!

I took the show to London for a year, returning for the second time to a city I had slowly learned to love, filled with people I had loved for a long time. But this time I would be on the London stage – not only allowed to breathe the same rarefied air as Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud, Scofield, and so many more, but welcomed by them, by all. They wanted me to love their island. So I embarked on another new beginning in a small, cozy, perfect house – perfect for Sam, Nanny, and me – with a reason to be there.

So I flourished in the land of royalty, gentility, creativity, and friendship. Applause opened. Not all the critics loved the show, but they did me, and there’s no one who would not respond to that. I felt loved – whether it was the woman they thought I was, who had evolved over twenty years into my Margo Channing, I am not sure. I only knew that the praise for my work was unequivocal and I was not about to ask questions. People came – audiences responded – they let me know they were glad I’d traveled those three thousand miles. I reveled in it. And then I fell in love with a married Englishman. Unexpectedly, but definitely. And after six completely happy months the relationship was brought to a devastating end through circumstance – bad timing – bad luck. For a while I hated England, felt betrayed, blamed the country, not the individuals. Felt trapped. I’d been working nonstop for five years – too hard – too long. Being Margo Channing had been my greatest theatrical gift, and being Margo Channing had taken its toll. Then along came Sidney Lumet with an offer for Murder on the Orient Express with a blinding cast of star actors. So one English year was to stretch into two. With that film experience came not only new friendships but the happiest work experience I’d had in my movie life since the beginning. And the raw hurt – the pain of another emotional ending – became somewhat dulled.

Steve and Dale came over for a two-week visit – I bought a beautiful dog, Blenheim, for Sam – and I loved my life in that, for me, enchanted city. The city is clean – the parks are green – everything about the less-pressured English life I loved. Best of all, I had Sidney and Sandra Bernstein and their children for Sam’s and my English family, with whom we always felt wanted, needed, and loved.

But in America, Watergate was in full flower. My only news came from limited TV coverage and newspapers. I wanted to know more – every detail. Having always been violently anti-Nixon, I wanted – felt the need – to be in America. I wanted to be certain Nixon would be removed. I wanted to be there to see it. Yet whenever I heard a loose English remark about the languid pace with which Watergate was being dealt, I found myself defending my country. So it was time to go. And there were Steve and Leslie – plus a Bogart grandson I hadn’t seen in two years. And Sam’s father was in America – Sam should not be deprived of him.

Finally, there was no real reason to stay. My work was over. And I had avoided the competitive world of my birthplace as long as I dared. I had one place to live that was my own, and that place was the frantic city of New York. So back I came, with endless luggage – crates of possessions to be shipped – Sam – and Blenheim. I didn’t know what would greet me on arrival, it was almost like exploring new territory. But there was really no choice. It was time to fight the battle of work in my own country, and to face my own reality, which was not England.

But even after months in New York I was miserable. The culture shock on re-entry was enormous. The soot, the noise, the filth in Central Park, the pushing and shoving. I was happy to see my children and my friends – they were happy to see me – but I could only think of England and wish I’d never left it. And re-entry was hard on Sam as well. His two years away from Collegiate School had left him in a terrible academic hole. The work was harder – he couldn’t handle it – he asked to go back to seeing the doctor. I asked him why. He said, ‘I think I need help.’ So we floundered – disjointed, disoriented, misplaced. No good work was in the offing. I rode on the joy of the Orient Express for some time – happily, for it brought England closer to me.

Jason was in A Moon for the Misbegotten on Broadway. I took Sam to see it. Jason was brilliant. I was so happy for him. He had learned a terrible lesson along the way. He had stopped drinking, his marriage was good, he had one new daughter and another baby on the way; that would make an even half-dozen. At last we became good friends. Whenever he’d come to get Sam for a weekend, dinner, whatever, Jason and I would sit and talk about work, about life. He was a good man – a wonderful man – I liked him, even loved him as a friend. He was worth the time, even the pain, invested. So my first instincts about him were right. He dealt wonderfully with Sam, was dependable, could talk over Sam’s problems. He understood – he had compassion. He’d always had that. And Sam was happy to see us enjoy each other’s company, though he knew it was on another level now. Some rewards come late.