by Joan Kramer
I still laugh whenever I think of that story. And I’m still flabbergasted that David, under fire, came up with the right answer in less time than it takes to blink.
DH Her reading of the letter had to be the final shot of the day. Just before I asked the camera to roll, she said to me, “If something goes wrong before the end, stop me.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing exactly what she meant: she didn’t want to use up her well of emotions if there was a technical glitch. Fortunately, there wasn’t, and by the time she’d finished, everyone in the room, including the crew, was so overwhelmed by its intensity that nobody moved for several minutes after I said, “Cut.”
I then asked her if she could do another take, just for protection. She said, “Okay.” It was good, but I felt that her second reading was a bit more like a performance. She thought so too. At the end, she said, “I think the first one was more interesting, but use whichever you want.”
JK When the show was completed and delivered to PBS, David went on a trip to England. Publicity cassettes had been sent to newspapers and magazines and full-page ads appeared in various publications. A few days after I sent Hepburn one of the press kits, my phone rang.
“It’s Kate. Where did you get that title? I never approved it. The Spencer Tracy Legacy? It sounds like he left me money.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. We’d spent hours going through title choices with her long before and she had, indeed, approved this one.
“We never would have used a title we hadn’t discussed with you and that you didn’t like,” I replied.
“Never. Never heard it before. You have to change it.”
“Miss Hepburn, we can’t do that. The master tapes have been duplicated and distributed to every public television station in the PBS network.”
“Well, get them back. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s impossible to do that.”
“So I’m done in. Is that what you’re telling me? You’ve driven a nail into my coffin.”
“Miss Hepburn, you have no idea how upset I am that you feel that way. I have tears rolling down my face.”
“Stop trying to convince me you’re noble,” she retorted. “Tears are easy.”
“Maybe for you, but not for me,” I said in a choked voice.
“Well, this whole thing is shocking,” she said. “And why am I listed as the ‘host’ who ‘remembers’ Spencer Tracy? It should be ‘narrator.’ And it all sounds sentimental.”
It was going from bad to worse by the minute. But I knew I had to stand my ground.
“You are the ‘host’ because you’re seen on camera. If we only heard your voice, you’d be credited as ‘narrator.’ And you’re ‘remembering’ Tracy by talking about him to the viewers.”
“Idiotic. ‘Host’ sounds wrong. Find another word and change it on the show,” she said in her most commanding tone of voice. “And if you don’t think the word ‘remembers’ sounds overly sentimental, you’re naïve.”
“I’m really sorry but there isn’t another word for ‘host’ and we can’t change anything even if there was,” I said, now shaking.
“Well, if you can’t find another word, then I will,” she said, and hung up abruptly.
I was a basket case of nerves by then, and David was on his way to England.
Two minutes later, Hepburn called back.
“I just checked the thesaurus and you’re right. There isn’t another goddamn word for ‘host,’ except ‘master of ceremonies,’ and that certainly won’t work. So I guess I’m stuck with ‘host,’” she said—and hung up again. But this time, she said, “Goodbye.”
I then composed a letter to her and sent it immediately by messenger. In it, I told her how badly I felt—that after all this time, she obviously didn’t trust David and me, that we were honored that she’d asked us to produce the program, and were convinced that it would bring a new audience to Tracy’s movies.
An hour later, she called me again. Furious.
“Never, never write a letter like that to me. If I didn’t trust you, do you think the two of you would have ever made it through the front door of this house?”—and hung up.
Moments later, my phone rang yet again.
“I’m going to send this goddamn thing back to you right now.”
“No, please don’t do that,” I replied. “Just tear it up and throw it away, and this whole episode will become ancient history.”
“Deal,” she said. “Call me tomorrow.”
Then, even though I knew I’d received what amounted to a “Hepburn apology,” I called David.
DH It was after midnight; I’d just checked into my hotel in Bristol, when the phone rang. Needless to say, I was upset by the story Joan told me, and knew that I had to speak directly to Kate. When she heard my voice, and I said I was calling from Britain, she said, “You didn’t have to call me and spend all that money on long distance.” Sweet as pie, she listened patiently as I reiterated that the title of the program was made with her input and final approval, and that she’d done an incredible job as its “host.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re happy with the result. Let’s hope everyone else is too,” she said. “And by the way, I’ve decided to throw a small cocktail party at my house next week and, of course, you and Joan are invited. Let me know who else should be asked. And now you should go to sleep. It must be the middle of the night where you are.”
JK When David called me to report on his conversation with her, I had to laugh. First, she was impressed by him calling her from England; then she willingly and calmly accepted the same explanation I had given her during her tirade; and now she was inviting us to her party.
The next day, I called her—hesitantly—to suggest who else should be included on the guest list. She said, “Sounds fine. You and David can ask them for me.” She was back to her old self, without any lingering hint of the anger I had experienced less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Katharine Hepburn preparing to read her letter to Spencer.
New York, 1986. Photograph by Len Tavares.
AADA invitation (note the incorrect title for the documentary).
New York, 1986. Authors’ collection.
Our tickets.
New York, 1986. Authors’ collection.
CHAPTER NINE
A Broadway Premiere
It was March 3rd, 1986. The tickets for A Tribute to Spencer Tracy were sold out. A one-night-only performance, it had all the glamour of a Broadway premiere, complete with police barricades which had been in place outside the Majestic Theatre on 46th Street since early morning. Fans were waiting behind the velvet ropes hoping to catch a glimpse of Katharine Hepburn, Robert Wagner, Sidney Poitier, and Frank Sinatra. But very few people knew about the chain of events which had led up to this evening, or the ones still unfolding behind the scenes even as the curtain went up. There was drama all around, and it wasn’t just on the stage that night.
DH It all began some four years earlier when Katharine Hepburn received a phone call from the president of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts asking her to appear at a benefit honoring Spencer Tracy. Tracy had graduated from the Academy in 1923, and had always credited his training there as the foundation for his success as an actor. Hepburn had previously been told that the AADA was planning to build a theater in his name, but that wasn’t even mentioned as the president described the event they had in mind now.
He said, “We’ve decided to set up an annual Spencer Tracy Scholarship, and we’ll launch it at a dinner in the ballroom of a hotel here in New York. Of course, we’d like you to sit on the dais and be the keynote speaker.”
She listened politely and then said, “It all sounds fascinating, but I don’t sit on daises. I’m not like a bowl of sugar where you spoon me out and then put the lid back on. Two friends of mine are producing a documentary about Spencer, which I’m going to narrate. Everything I have to say about him will be in it. So wait until we fin
ish and then you can show it at your event.”
It was a clever ploy. If the Academy used the program, she wouldn’t have to appear at a benefit. That was her plan. It didn’t quite work out that way.
At the time of that phone call, we were, indeed, hoping to produce a profile of Tracy, which Hepburn would host. But she had no idea when—or if—we’d ever find the financing for it, a fact which she forgot to mention to the president of the AADA. So little did he know just how long the wait would be. It actually took over three years to raise the funds before we could even start production, and we wonder to this day what ruses she used each time she was asked, “When will the show be ready?”
There was one other significant hole in her plan. She never mentioned anything about it to us.
JK In the many conversations we had with her during those years, only twice did we ever discuss the Academy wanting to honor Tracy. In August, 1982, she told me: “The American Academy of Dramatic Arts is building a theater to be named after Spencer.” Then a month later, when I asked her if the theater was still in the works, she said, “Yes. They’re trying to raise the money for it, and I think the publicity for the show we’re going to do will be a great help to them.”
That was all we knew until four years later. By then, our program was completed and we’d delivered it to PBS for a March 10th, 1986, broadcast premiere. I was across the hall talking with David when I heard my phone ring.
“Hello, Joan. It’s Kate.”
Even though I always enjoyed talking with her, I still felt a twinge of nervousness whenever she called me.
I said, “Hi. How are you today?”
“Fine,” she said. “But I must be getting feeble-minded because I can’t remember if I ever told you that the American Academy of Dramatic Arts is going to honor Spencer.”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “But you haven’t mentioned it for a long time. Have they started building the theater yet?”
“The theater? What theater?” Then before I could respond, she continued. “Oh that’s right. They were talking about a Spencer Tracy Theater, weren’t they? But they must have given up on that idea a long time ago because I haven’t heard a word about it in years. Now they’re doing a benefit at a Broadway theater and I told them they could show your documentary. You’ll be getting a call from the president of the Academy any minute.”
This was straight out of left field. I felt as if I’d been hit in the stomach by a fast ball. What on earth was she talking about? My mind began to race, but somehow it went blank at the same time. I thought, “Okay, Joan. Take it easy and try not to sound panic-stricken.” But it didn’t take long to realize that what she thought would be simple would, in fact, be very complicated.
“When is their event?” I asked. “And I need to check with the legal department to find out whether we have the rights for the program to be shown in a theater.”
She said, “If you don’t have those rights, get them. I’ve already promised the Academy.”
I wanted to say, “What do you mean you already promised? When did all this happen?” But I already knew that engaging in a confrontation with Katharine Hepburn would not be a good idea.
However, she must have sensed how taken aback I was because, instead of waiting for me to say something, she continued. “It’s just plain idiotic that I haven’t told you about this before, but I can hear it in your voice that it’s all news to you. So here’s the story.” And that’s when I learned that she didn’t sit on daises, give keynote speeches, wasn’t a sugar bowl, and had decided our show should be the centerpiece of the AADA’s benefit.
And as I listened, it began to dawn on me what a huge compliment this was. Obviously, she’d never doubted for a moment that the program eventually would get made, or that it would turn out to be worthy of representing her at a tribute to Tracy. And while her primary goal in all this was her own self-preservation, it also reflected the trust she’d placed in us years before.
My indignation vanished completely, and I finally said, “It would really be exciting to see the show on a big screen with a live audience.”
“I think so too. It’ll be thrilling—and very good for your careers,” she said. “And it’ll help them do Spencer proud.”
Indeed, the president of the Academy called a few minutes later, his voice full of enthusiasm. I decided not to beat around the bush. “I have to be honest with you. None of us knew anything about this until Miss Hepburn called five minutes ago. It’s a wonderful idea, but we may not have the rights for this sort of a screening. I need to get a reading from our lawyers.” There was a dead silence on the other end and then, in an urgent tone, he said, “But she promised, and our benefit committee has already lined up the Majestic Theatre on 46th Street and sent a notice to all our members. We’ve waited almost four years for your show. Please work it out.”
DH After months of twelve to fourteen-hour days, Joan and I were looking forward to a vacation. This should have been a period of winding down to the sound of gentle ocean breezes. But the call from Katharine Hepburn and then from the president of the Academy threw us right back into a maelstrom of activity.
There was a flurry of phone calls to lawyers at WNET, PBS, and MGM (which was supplying most of the films clips in the program), to the publicists at all three companies, and of course, to our two executive producers, George Page at WNET and George Paris at MGM. The questions were obvious: Would the AADA’s use of the program cause a violation of any of the contracts which excluded theatrical exhibition of the show? Would the press coverage for this event steal the thunder from the publicity campaign for the program and therefore diminish its impact as a television special?
JK While executives were conferring, I was hearing almost daily from various people at the AADA, and from Katharine Hepburn. “What’s the problem? Why is this such a big deal?” Their frustration was building. No, make that anxiety. I understood it because I felt it too. But all I could say was, “It isn’t up to us. Please be patient. The powers-that-be are on the case and we should have an answer very soon.”
Now I was the one having to come up with ruses to avoid an uprising.
Hepburn said, “Maybe I should call all these people myself. I can be pretty persuasive and quite adorable.”
“Yes, we know how persuasive and adorable you are.” I said. “Thank you for the offer, but let’s keep it up our sleeve in case we need a last round of ammunition. Right now, everyone realizes how important this is and I think it’s better to let it play out on its own.”
She laughed and said, “Okay. But make sure I jump in if it looks as though the ship is sinking.”
I knew the impact of hearing directly from Katharine Hepburn. And she knew it too. One call from her usually did the trick. But I was reluctant to turn her loose on people who’d never talked to her before, knowing that she can be both charming and intimidating. I also wanted to protect her from the risk of failing. She’d likely insist that she’d made a promise and was honor-bound to keep it, an argument which might just fall like a lead balloon on some executive trying to prove how unimpressed he was by saying, “With all due respect, Miss Hepburn, you never should have done that without clearing it first with us.” My goal was to avoid any more tension than there already was.
DH Finally, there was a decision. The program could be used as part of the benefit only if it took place before the television premiere. It would then fall under the category of “advance publicity” for which we, indeed, did have the rights. And the press coverage it received in connection with the event would obviously enhance the publicity for the broadcast.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and the date was set for Monday, March 3rd, 1986, exactly one week prior to the airdate of the program.
The Academy hired an experienced events producer, Inez Weinstein, who had chosen a very difficult career. Benefits involve influential people—often celebrities—volunteering their time and participation. The organization which is presenting the ben
efit has its own cast of characters, perhaps not well-known personalities, but with egos just the same. The producer has to treat all of them with the utmost finesse, inspiring confidence and respect, while getting the job done on time and on budget. It’s a tough balance. And even though Inez was a seasoned professional, strong-willed and thick-skinned, this event turned into a wild ride not unlike a roller coaster on the brink of falling off its rails.
Right from the start, she told Katharine Hepburn that the gala needed top-flight, big name personalities to appear on stage telling stories of their professional and personal relationships with Tracy. It also needed his daughter, Susie, to accept the Spencer Tracy Award as the Academy launched the scholarship in his name. And it needed Hepburn live on stage to introduce the documentary.
Needless to say, Kate protested, but Inez stood firm. Apparently there were heated discussions. But Katharine Hepburn was, above all, a pragmatist. And she knew, despite her plan to avoid it, that she had to be there in person. So she reluctantly agreed and then became the talent coordinator. She called Robert Wagner to host the evening, and asked Frank Sinatra, Sidney Poitier, and Stanley Kramer to take part. All of them immediately accepted her invitation. They hadn’t received a fee for appearing in the documentary and wouldn’t be paid to participate in this event either. Susie Tracy agreed to travel to New York even though she was very nervous about speaking in front of a live audience. While she and Hepburn had become good friends in the years since Tracy’s death in 1967, this would mark the first time they’d be seen in public together.
The writing team was just as distinguished: Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who interviewed each of the participants so that the script would be based on their own words. Susie Tracy was the only one who declined to have her comments scripted. She explained that, not being an actress, it would be easier for her to speak extemporaneously.
In the meantime, I was investigating what kind of equipment could project a television program on a big screen. No one at the AADA had any technical experience, and their original idea was to place television monitors in the aisles of the theater, which I felt would give the Majestic the aura of a school auditorium. Fortunately, I was able to convince them that seeing the show on a large movie screen would add to the impact of the entire evening. They were on a tight budget, but they found the funds for the projector.
