by Joan Kramer
I couldn’t find a good reason to say “No.” But something told me this wasn’t going to be easy. Reluctantly, I agreed.
She called the next day. It was a friendly voice and she thanked me for taking time to talk to her. She told me she had done an interview with “Miss D.” and they were using that, together with Davis’s home movies, to produce a profile of her. They had edited about fifteen minutes so far.
Not sure where the conversation was going, and wanting to encourage her to tell me more, I asked a simple question to start the ball rolling.
“Are you shooting film or tape?”
There was a silence, long enough to make me realize she didn’t know.
“When you’re with your editor, are you watching television monitors or splicing pieces of film?” I asked.
She said, “Oh, we’re looking at it on television.”
That gave me the answer (in the late 1980s it was rare to edit film using tape editing techniques, which were still relatively clumsy). I didn’t push the issue any further.
“How can I help?”
“We have a lot more to do, but Michael suggested I talk to you before we go on. Miss D. and I are coming to New York next week, because she has a dental appointment. She’s devoted to her dentist in New York and won’t use anyone else. So while we’re there, can you and your colleague, Joan, come for tea? How about 4 o’clock on Tuesday?” I agreed to the appointment and asked her to send a videocassette of what they’d already edited.
It arrived the next morning, and as soon as we had watched the first few seconds, both Joan and I realized we’d been handed a “hot potato.” Our opinion was not going to be what they wanted to hear. Kathryn, herself, was the on-camera interviewer. She looked beautiful, but clearly had no experience in this area and did not know how to phrase questions in a way that elicited stories; many of them already gave away the answers, leaving Davis with nothing much to say. There was also the problem caused by the stroke Bette Davis had suffered a few years earlier. She was obviously trying to hide the effect it had on her facial muscles by wearing a hat with a white net veil. Therefore, while we were hearing her speak, we couldn’t really see her, which was disconcerting. On top of that, the structure of the veil interfered with the lines that make up the television picture, and the result was dizzying. And they had chosen to use very little home movie footage, which struck us as strange since both Michael and Kathryn had emphasized that this film would mark the first time that Davis was allowing any of it to be seen.
I called Michael immediately. “The film has a lot of problems and there’s no easy fix. I can’t imagine what we’re going to say to them. Can you get us out of this?” He used his most persuasive tone, “They just need to hear from someone with experience. Please meet them and try to offer some suggestions.”
JK We arrived at their suite in the Hotel Navarro on Central Park South at precisely 4 pm. Bette Davis opened the door herself. I knew she was short, but didn’t expect her to be so thin. She was dressed in what looked like a Chanel suit. It was somewhat sad to see her in person now, because she’d suffered from a number of serious illnesses, which had taken their toll on her appearance.
David and I introduced ourselves and she invited us in. “I’ve ordered tea,” she said, in what was still a strong, commanding voice.
Then she looked at me and said, “You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
I explained that I used to work for The Dick Cavett Show, and was involved in booking her for the interview in which Dick asked, “When did you lose your virginity?” She laughed and said that she’d never forget that appearance and that people still mention it to her.
The doorbell rang and a waiter arrived with a cart that had small sandwiches, cookies and a tea service.
As she was pouring tea for us, a door opened at the far end of the room and Kathryn Sermak entered. But she didn’t just come into the room, she made an entrance worthy of a scene in a drama. I still remember what she wore: a black velvet gown with a diamond—or rhinestone—brooch at the bottom of the deep v-neck. The dress was almost floor length, with a very full skirt, one side of which she held out so that it flowed as she glided across the room towards the chair next to us. She was wearing high heels, which were also black velvet, with a sparkling brooch at the front of each. Her jewelry included a cascading diamond necklace that reached down into her cleavage, and matching chandelier earrings that were long enough to almost touch her shoulders. In the other hand, she held a cigarette in a long black onyx cigarette holder—one that would not have been out of place in a Bette Davis movie.
I later described the scene as reminiscent of the way Loretta Young, wearing a flowing gown, would make her entrance each week at the opening of her 1960s television series.
Kathryn sat down, took a puff of her cigarette, and said, “Hello, I’m Kathryn Sermak.”
I just stared at her, not quite able to digest what I was seeing.
DH Bette Davis smiled at her and then turned to us, “I saw the piece you did on Spencer Tracy with Katie Hepburn and thought it was very good. But our film is different. And before you give us your reactions, let me say that I think Kathryn has done a remarkable job. Don’t you agree?”
Suddenly all eyes were on me, including Joan’s. My heart sank. I had to say something, but didn’t quite have the nerve to burst Bette Davis’s bubble of enthusiasm. So I used the old trick of avoiding the question by asking some.
“What are your plans for the film? How long do you want it to be and how do you think it should be distributed?”
It was Kathryn who replied. “We think it should be at least two hours. And we know you work for public television, so we thought the two of you could help us raise the money to finish it and get it onto PBS.”
This was not at all what I had expected. My diversionary tactic had only caused us to fall deeper into a hole.
I tried to get out of it by explaining that WNET, like most public television stations, had a fundraising department and that we were not allowed to step on its toes. I’m not sure I sounded very convincing.
But then Joan came to the rescue. In fact, she plunged in head first.
JK David can vouch for the fact that it’s not often I find myself speechless. But I was still somewhat stunned by Kathryn Sermak. I felt guilty leaving him “holding the bag,” but I rationalized, “He’s the only man in the room; they know he’s a director; and he speaks with a British accent.” But when I heard that they wanted us to become their fundraisers, I found my voice.
“Miss Davis, you mentioned the show we did with Katharine Hepburn about Spencer Tracy. I think you should know it took over three years to raise the money for that program, even though Hepburn was the host. The point here is that I don’t think you, Kathryn, should be on camera asking questions. No one knows you. You could still ask the questions, but off camera and phrased in such a way that Miss Davis’s answers make sense without the audience hearing the questions. It’s a style commonly used in documentaries and it works well. It also saves program time.
Bette Davis interrupted, “But then it will look as though I’m talking to no one. And besides, I think Kathryn is very good. I know it won’t take three years to raise the money for this show.” The implication was as clear as her ego. She thought a profile of her was more saleable than Hepburn’s about Spencer Tracy. She also believed that her own fame and clout would make everyone accept Kathryn Sermak as the host.
Although my suggestion had gone over like a lead balloon, by then, I really didn’t care; I knew we were in a no-win situation.
Suddenly I thought of another idea. I said, “How about a ‘scrap-book’ framework? It would allow the two of you to sit next to each other and talk about Miss Davis’s life and career as you turn the pages and look at pictures. The camera would zoom in to some of the images, and as they filled the screen, they’d come alive as film clips and stills.”
“I don’t like that at all,” said Davis. “It
’s contrived.”
DH She put down her cup of tea, went to the door of the suite, opened it and said, “Thank you for coming.”
It wasn’t subtle. Bette Davis was throwing us out.
All I could think of was her performance in The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex, except that she didn’t slap our faces as she did Errol Flynn’s. Our audience with her had lasted all of twenty-five minutes, which felt like two hours.
As soon as we were back in our office, I called Michael Black. “What’s going on here? They clearly didn’t want to hear the truth about their film, and we felt we were witnessing a real-life version of All About Eve. Kathryn seemingly wants to be a star and Bette Davis obviously is trying to help her become one.”
He said, “I’m sorry you had such a rough time, but I knew that they wouldn’t listen to me. I’m just the agent.”
JK and DH As far as we know, their film never was completed. But several years after Davis’s death, TNT aired a documentary called All About Bette. As we watched it, we recognized some of the footage of her in that unforgettable hat and veil; the same we’d seen in the fifteen-minute cassette that Kathryn had sent us.
Bette Davis died in 1989. Her son and Kathryn Sermak were named co-executors of her estate.
Authors’ collection.
David Heeley with Lauren Bacall on Warner Bros. lot.
Burbank, CA, 1987. Photograph by Mitzi Trumbo.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bacall and Bogie
There had been programs made about Humphrey Bogart, but never one hosted by his widow, Lauren Bacall. They had married shortly after their first film together, To Have and Have Not, and became one of Hollywood’s most famous couples, until his untimely death at the age of fifty-seven. We discussed the idea of a profile with Roger Mayer, head of Turner Entertainment Co.1, which controlled the rights to many Warner Bros. films, including Bogart’s most famous. Roger was enthusiastic and said he’d be willing to enter into a co-production deal with WNET, giving us free access to the clips and stills in exchange for Turner having the rights to distribute the program in other media outside the PBS broadcast window. PBS was on board too, agreeing to finance the show as a Great Performances special for a fundraising Pledge Week. Now all we needed was Bacall.
We wrote her a letter and, soon after, her agent, Hal Ross at William Morris in Los Angeles, called to say that she was interested. We asked him to set up an appointment for us to meet with her. When he didn’t call back, we called again. He told us he was trying to sell the idea to other broadcasters and was waiting to hear from one of the major commercial networks.
We were appalled. Even in the cutthroat entertainment business, it did not seem very honorable to be shopping around our project to others. But we had an ace up our sleeve: Roger Mayer, one of the most above-board executives in Hollywood. Although Roger was a friend of Hal Ross, and might have been able to make more money from a commercial network deal, he stood by his verbal agreement with us, and told Ross that if anyone else tried to produce a program with Bacall about Bogart, they would not have access to any Warner Bros. film clips2.
That was the end of that problem. But there would be others.
JK We eventually met Lauren Bacall in her agent’s office in Beverly Hills (she lived in New York, but was in LA at the time), and took her to lunch at a restaurant nearby. We reminded her that we’d met before, when she did an interview for the show we’d produced about Katharine Hepburn in 1981. Bacall and Hepburn were close friends and she told us she’d seen our program about Spencer Tracy, which Katharine Hepburn hosted. She expressed surprise that Kate had done that show, since she’d never before agreed to talk about her relationship with Tracy. She was even more surprised when we told her that Hepburn had actually suggested the program herself.
It’s just a guess, but in retrospect, we believe that Bacall’s decision to work with us was based at least in part on Katharine Hepburn having trusted us to produce a program that was just as personal to her as this one about Bogart was to Bacall.
DH She was forthcoming and pleasant and we came away liking her. But her reputation for being difficult was well known, so we were wary.
The next obstacle was her fee. It took a long time to come to terms with her agent’s demands, but finally a deal was made. Getting a fully-executed contract was another matter. We had to push ahead with production in order to meet the PBS airdate. But we were always aware that we were on thin ice until the contract was signed.
The next time we met was in her apartment in the Dakota, on New York’s Central Park West. She asked us to find a way for her eldest son, Steve Bogart, to work on the program. So we hired him as a consultant. Steve looked remarkably like his father, but didn’t seem terribly interested in the project. He did loan us some photos, and was always available to talk. Having lived with the Bogart name—and indeed, legend—all his life, he admitted that only recently had he reached the point where he wanted to know more. (Years later, he would write a book about his father and then produce and host a television program based on it.)
Bacall told us that she had a collection of home movies in a storage facility and agreed to have it sent to us on the condition that we make copies for her, Steve, and her daughter, Leslie. It was valuable and unique footage, since she had accompanied Bogart to Africa for the making of The African Queen, and shot home movies there of Bogie, Hepburn, director John Huston, and a lot of crocodiles. The problem with it was that she was not a great cameraperson. Like many other novices, she used a film camera as though she were shooting stills. As soon as a subject was properly framed, she moved on to something else, so that almost none of shots lasted more than a couple of seconds. Fortunately, she occasionally gave her camera to someone else, possibly a crew member, so some of the footage was usable.
The Burbank Studios gave us permission to shoot Bacall on the Warner Bros. lot, where she and Bogart had worked for many years. She found it an emotional experience to be back at the place where her career started and where she met Bogie.
But now we found ourselves dealing with a difficult, demanding Lauren Bacall. And remember, we still didn’t have a signed contract.
Although she had seen and approved the script beforehand, she wanted to change large chunks of it. So valuable time was spent in conferences in her dressing trailer, re-writing each piece right before shooting it. Then the new copy had to be put onto prompter, taking up even more time.
Lauren Bacall in Warner’s Prop Department with the Maltese Falcon.
Burbank, CA, 1987. Photograph by Mitzi Trumbo.
JK While the crew was setting up new shots, Bacall and I walked around the lot. In the hallways of the buildings are many original posters of Bogart’s movies. She asked if she could have them. The studio manager explained that they were not allowed to remove them from the walls. The same thing happened in the prop department. She wanted one of the replicas of the Maltese Falcon, a request which also was denied. Then we went to wardrobe, where she asked if they had one of Bogart’s famous raincoats. They didn’t, but she said she’d like one if they ever found it.
She worked easily with the crew, but the air was filled with tension, and shooting went very slowly because of all the re-writing.
Back in New York, we had scheduled her for one more day on-camera and a day for narration. Then, out of the blue, I received a call from Hal Ross: “You’re going to have to shoot and narrate Betty Bacall in London because she’s been invited to attend a big event there and won’t be in New York when you need her.”
I reminded him that we’d worked out the schedule with her approval, and didn’t have the time or money to travel to England.
“Well, you’ll have to,” he said. “She’s leaving next week.”
We knew we were in a bind. Even if we could afford to go to London and hire facilities there, the trip would make mincemeat of our already tight schedule. After discussing the situation with Jac Venza, our executive producer, we decided we had no choic
e other than to stand tough. I called Ross back and said, “Miss Bacall made a commitment to do this program on a schedule that was convenient for her. So now there are two choices. She can keep her commitment to us as planned, or she can go to London and we’ll hire another person to narrate the program.” It was a clear ultimatum.
There was a silence. Then he said, “I’ll get back to you.”
Half-an-hour later, my phone rang. “She’s canceling her trip, but she’s furious.”
DH We knew that our next encounter with Lauren Bacall was going to be difficult.
She arrived for the shoot clearly angry. Her makeup artist, who had gone to her apartment to do her makeup, told us she’d been fuming all morning and was unpleasant and uncooperative. On set, she did what she had to do, but refused to talk to me or Joan. Most communication was via the lighting director.
In tribute to her professional skills, the footage looks fine. No one watching the program would guess that there was a frigid atmosphere throughout the day. At one point, between set-ups, her attention was diverted to our contracts administrator, Lynne Autman, who limped into the room with a broken leg in a cast. Bacall noticed the cast and began a friendly and sympathetic conversation with her. Lynne was a master at chatting with talent and getting contracts signed. She pulled it off again. Bacall signed without missing a beat.
The next day was the narration session. I went into the recording booth with her. Joan was outside in the control room, but could hear everything being said in the booth.
Bacall was still furious. She said, “How dare you do what you did? I was given nothing short of an ultimatum. Kamikaze tactics. You used kamikaze tactics to threaten me.”
