Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

I had to see him. So I called him again to say I was on my way whereupon his assistant called to say he wanted to have a quiet dinner on the Saturday night after my arrival. Just Roddy, Elizabeth Taylor – his childhood friend – and me. Of course, no question, I’ll be there. I couldn’t believe that even with his illness he could still plan an evening. Nor had it ever occurred to me that, weeks before, when Roddy was told he was terminally ill, he had begun to make his lists.

He had hired (I think) a young acquaintance to help him get his affairs in order. And Roddy started to list which of his friends he wanted to leave what to. He was, as always, meticulous and specific. For example, he had a large collection of Hermès scarves. He put each one in an envelope and wrote our names on the outside – upper lefthand corners. So when we received the envelope there was no question that it was Roddy’s choice for each of us and treasured as such. How many hundreds he had, I do not know, but for a man who had limited time left, that alone took up much of it. In addition, there was the dispersal of the rest of his worldly goods of which there was a plethora. He dealt with it all, one by one, in order of his priorities. That was Roddy. There was nobody like him.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I received a phone call telling me the dinner was cancelled. Roddy wasn’t up to it. I spoke to Sybil who told me to get over to Roddy’s as soon as possible. She said she thought Elizabeth would be coming the following day. I quickly called Elizabeth – asked her assistant if they could pick me up at the hotel so that we could go together. Absolutely – it was arranged and that’s the way we went, both nervous at what we might find and sad beyond words.

The following day Elizabeth and I, with her assistant at the wheel, headed for Roddy’s house in the Valley. It was the beginning of the saddest of sad days. Entering the house was traumatic. No Roddy to greet us. No lights on in the living room. The house was dark – the only life left in that house full of laughter and friendship was Roddy upstairs in his room gradually slipping away. The front door was opened by his assistant who told us to wait while he told Sybil we had arrived. Elizabeth sat in a chair in the lifeless living room filled with apprehensions at the prospect of meeting Sybil for the first time. ‘She must hate me. I know she does.’ I said, ‘Don’t worry, Sybil will make it all possible. This is about Roddy, nothing else.’ I went out to the entrance hall and saw Sybil coming down the stairs. I told her Liz was in the living room – very nervous. As I stood behind Sybil, I saw her enter the living room, look at Elizabeth with outstretched arms welcoming her to the house. They gave each other a great, big hug with their mutual love of Roddy being their bond. After the years of pain sustained by Sybil, it was more than remarkable that she was able to do that. You see, the welcome was not about Elizabeth, it was about Roddy – a recognition of the importance to him of that bond between them, of their years as child actors, growing up together and sharing all of both their lives’ happy and unhappy times. And, most importantly, it was about Roddy’s dying. It was about each of us saying our goodbyes to a friend who meant so much to us. So one by one we went upstairs and had our private time with Roddy. There he was in his bed with his beloved opera music (Puccini, I think) sounding loud and clear. I went over and hugged him. We kissed each other and I sat by the bed holding his hand. He clearly had been given some drug to lessen the pain so he smiled at me. I told him how much I loved him, listened to the music with him – the glorious voice of Renata Tebaldi (who he adored). It was the music that transported him to a happy place. I had so many pictures in my mind that began in the days before Camelot in which he appeared with Richard Burton and during which his friendship with Sybil came to fruition. So many great evenings in his apartment on Central Park West over forty years ago. Suddenly Elizabeth came into the room. I was brought out of my reverie and I leaned over and kissed Roddy once more on his cheeks and on the hand that had been on mine. That was the last time that I saw that extraordinary man, friend, talent.

The following day he was gone and with him went that part of me that was connected only to him – his wit – his warmth – his total commitment to his friends – his loving generosity, never asking for himself. He was a truly unusual man whose life ended much too soon. We were Virgos together, we shared our aloneness together. For me, it was the first loss of one of my contemporaries. It was the beginning of my awareness of my own mortality and also of the gaping hole that was left with Roddy’s leaving. It all happened so quickly – like a blink. There was no way to be prepared. He was young, too young. Always the good guys die young – the bad guys seem to go on forever. And it also brought home to me the luck I had in having such a friend and how careful I must be with those who are left that I value so highly.

I had worked with Kirk Douglas in the Fifties in Young Man With a Horn – he who had been my great infatuation at age sixteen while at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts together. Now, in 1998, I had an opportunity to work once more with this remarkable actor – who had become my friend over the last twenty years – in a movie called Diamonds . How lucky a woman am I! He has had some bad collisions with health but he has risen above it all. The movie we made together was his first after his stroke. He was amazing. To have always been this macho man – a wonderful actor – in control – then to have risen above his challenges in such an open, super-charged way – has been more than admirable. He continues, giving more of himself than ever before, learning more, accomplishing more. It was a marvellous and enlightening experience for me to work with him and get to know him again and his equally amazing wife.

After Diamonds , there were a couple of movies that did not set the world on fire. The people were wonderful, the places they were made were wonderful – Majorca (which was new to me and which I loved) and Venice (which I have always loved) – but the movies, for reasons beyond my control and understanding, have never been finished. Not because they were bad, but because they were seemingly taken over by money people who had no understanding of the stories, thereby making a confused I-don’t-know-what of them.

Then, in 1999, after hoping for too many years, a mini-series came my way. My first, and a terrific time I had. It took fifty years to finally be in a mini-series – never before and maybe never again as they seem to have stopped making them. The subject was the heiress Doris Duke, her life and death. She was always an interesting, fascinating woman. Too Rich was the title and was the basis of her demise. I had met her a couple of times and liked her.

What makes a mini-series so good to be a part of – what sets it apart from TV sitcoms – is that it is complete. It consists of two two-hour showings – that’s four hours of whoever or whatever is the focus so there is, as in the theatre, a beginning, a middle and an end. And a mini-series, right or wrong, is treated publicly by both networks and producers as being an event. As for playing the part of Doris Duke, I was called upon to portray her many facets covering the last ten or fifteen years of her life.

Having been chosen to play her somehow made me feel very special. There was an aura around Doris Duke for obvious reasons. So much money. Money, which seems to be what everyone wants. We all need some, but is there ever enough? Money has brought destruction and misery more often than not. It may bring you comfort – it will certainly not bring you peace of mind. And in the case of Doris Duke, neither luck nor health nor personal satisfaction. She was used by so many. I always thought of her as being truly sad. When I met her, though briefly, she was friendly, waved to me, told me how she loved my mother. My mother was an exceptionally brilliant secretary – could do anything, including shorthand, typing – she had been working for Louis Bromfield who had known Doris Duke. Exactly when and where it all happened, I do not know. I only know that it did and for all I know my mother may have done and probably did do some work for Doris Duke. Whatever it was, the two women connected in a very positive way. Doris Duke always remembered my mother and always mentioned her with great affection so that automatically made her shine in my eyes. That made her a winner in every way.