Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

In the case of Dogville , living in the village of Trollhattan in Sweden, in the dead of winter with very little sun and short days, the atmosphere wasn’t loaded with gaiety. Not to overlook the fact that the plot of the movie itself was very dark which did not encourage laughter.

With all the negatives, I would not have missed it. The result was a controversial – Lars is always controversial, a good thing and he’s never dismissed, also a good thing – but very interesting and worthwhile movie. At the time, not having seen a foot of film, I was filled with anxiety at how the final cut would turn out.

More than one year later, Dogville was to be screened on the opening day of the New York Film Festival. I had to go through it with the same trepidation. I would finally see Lars’s complete vision brought to life. And get a glimpse of myself as a character in that town. After the march down the red carpet with my faithful, constantly supportive manager, Johnnie Planco, by my side, we were led to our reserved seats in the theatre. Sitting there in the dark, I squirmed at first, not really knowing what to expect. Seeing our set, our town with the streets clearly drawn, I found myself relaxing a bit as I became caught up in the story, the characters – and except for an occasional twinge when I saw myself, I really liked it. But I mean really liked it, not having expected to. It’s part of one of the most fascinating aspects of movie making. Even while watching the finished product, memories and flashes of moments during the shooting pop up in your mind. Pictures of moments shared with cast members, visions of Lars in his amazing camera contraption, awareness of the musical score, the narration, all parts of the movie, not jarring, all what Lars intended, all completing the picture.

When the lights went up, I felt quite fine. Always somewhat nervous at events like this but relieved to feel good about the whole. People congratulating me on my performance – incongruous considering my very small contribution. Nevertheless, I was glad to be in it. It was worth the seven weeks in Sweden and definitely worth my newly formed friendships. Also there was the wonder that I felt and the amazement that sixty years as an active participant in movie making has afforded me the privilege of not only viewing but actively working in a new, original approach to film making. Confirming for me how right I was to know from the age of ten or twelve that I had to be an actress.

Not long ago, I went back to the same places in Sweden to be in the second film of von Trier’s trilogy – Manderlay . The part was small but I was able to work with Lars once more and to see him on a different set – different theme – still ensemble acting, which I enjoy. Surprisingly there were the same trailers as in Dogville – same studio – same Trollhattan to live in, but a completely renovated suite this time, done in my favorite blue and white. Funnily enough, it made me want to stay there a little longer. An oddly nostalgic feeling.

D ogville was quite well received . Mixed reviews but attention and respect for Lars were always there. Unhappily it could not erase or stop the onslaught of friends dying that began in 2002. I’ll start with Adolph Green, the man who jumped into my life on a musical (what else?) night at Ira Gershwin’s home.

Adolph’s energy. His incredible sense of the outrageous. His teeth, which always shone brightly and he had many of them. Our friendship began more than fifty years ago. He was a complete – a true – original, a genuine eccentric. He had a personality so strong, so infectious, so endearing that he demanded attention. When he invaded your life, and that’s exactly what he did, you had to let him in. You wanted to – you knew a life force had entered your life and there was no getting away from it. He knew the title and cast of every movie ever made, from silent films to this day. He knew every note of classical music. He would sing it – dum-dic-a-dum, etc. He knew every note of show tunes and their lyrics. He knew books of all varieties and their authors. He was mind-boggling. I don’t know how he knew all these things, and he was neither pompous nor condescending about his knowledge. He was the personification of laughter and, at times, infuriatingly stubborn while at the same time being the sweetest, most loving husband, father and friend. I knew about the first two from observation and from being very close to his wife, Phyllis Newman. I almost felt related and was known as Number Two Wife. A joke, don’t you know? The last two years of Adolph’s life were no fun for him – he’d lost much of his hearing and vision. But that didn’t stop him from not only partaking of life but living it to the fullest. We attended an event on Long Island – many round tables full of friends and food. Adolph was sitting next to me. I was talking to someone on the other side of our table when I heard Adolph – loud and clear – say, ‘Just because I am blind and deaf is no reason not to talk to me.’ You see, the humor remained and that statement was as close to a complaint as I ever heard from this funny, adorable, life-enhancing visitor from another planet. All of us – friends, families, most especially children – think about him and talk about him very, very often. He had an uncanny connection with the young – why not? He was forever young himself. Steve and Leslie had known him from childhood – Sam, too, all through his growing up years. Adolph and Phyllis’s son, Adam, and Sam grew up together. Sam always felt close to Adolph, understood and connected with him. Adolph will crop up on an almost daily basis in general conversation. Often when you needed early film information, anything connected to music, Adolph had the answer. And every scene brings laughter and the sight of Adolph who could never be mistaken for anyone else. I often have the sense that he’ll come skipping around the corner and we’ll pick up where we left off, there was so much life and unpredictability in him. Remembrance saves me where friends are concerned. In any case, there is no forgetting Adolph Green – not that I’d want to. I just couldn’t. His imprint is permanent. I see him almost daily, as I do with all those I have loved and lost.

I was just beginning to be able to live without the presence of Adolph when along came the shock in 2003 of the death of playwright Peter Stone. Peter was robust, never sick, and seventy-three years old – not considered old by anyone’s standards. Another friendship of more than forty years. We worked together twice – once with Robert Preston in a short story written by Peter for television and secondly on a larger scale, on Woman of the Year for Broadway. Both successful and happy experiences. He was far and away the best toastmaster in my world. Always funny, always the right words in the right place at the right time. He toasted me at every major honor I received in New York or Washington. I always felt safe with Peter. He never went for the jugular. If he cared about you, he was there totally. His opinions about plays and players were loud and clear. No pussyfooting around. I disagreed with him many times – we butted heads a bit – but that never put more than a momentary nick in our friendship and affection for one another.

I was in his and his wife Mary’s country home one weekend. Peter appeared in outdoor gear – cap, gloves, portable Sony with accompanying ear aides, walking shoes, etc. In all the years and all the weekends I’d spent in that house, I’d never seen Peter partake of anything athletic except tennis, which he loved. Upon my inquiry, ‘What’s going on?’, he said his doctor had told him he had to walk an hour each day. He seemed slightly annoyed that this walk would take him away from his reading and phone calls – interrupt our regular lunch at Estins in Amagansett. He was, however, resigned, saying, ‘I don’t want to – but I have to. I’m fine walking downhill, it’s uphill that’s the toughie.’ And that was that. I asked no more questions. He volunteered no more information, although the following morning reading the Sunday papers – me on the couch – Peter in his usual chair in this cozy, relaxed, ideal country living room – I suddenly became aware he was on the phone to his doctor. Most unusual. But I said nothing. Only the next morning, as I was leaving to return to New York, I said my goodbyes to Mary and on turning to Peter, I felt an air of vulnerability around him that led me to stroke his face and tell him, ‘Take care of your sweet self.’ ‘I will,’ and I left. I will never forget that picture of us standing by the screen door. And it is only now that I realize that was the last time I saw him.