By Myself and Then Some (79 page)

Bob Dylan was also a nominee. He does not like crowds – feels very uneasy in the midst of ceremonies like this one. We had met in Sydney in 1986 when I was playing in
Sweet Bird of Youth
and he was giving a few concerts. He gave me tickets to his event and I gave him tickets for mine. I was totally thrilled to meet him, and Colin Friels, who was the leading man in
Sweet Bird
, was beyond excited. To attend a concert, much less sit with Dylan after a concert, was something he had only dreamed of – that, of course, made it even more fun for me. Dylan and I got along very well – supped after our shows and had fun. Apart from once at another of his concerts, we hadn’t seen one another since that time. Of course I loved seeing him under these circumstances. I hugged him, introduced him to my children – all totally thrilled to meet him. And why not? It was a weekend to remember.

The Kennedy Center Honors must rank as the highest that it is possible to receive in the arts in the United States. The thrill for me was to be in the company of Bob Dylan, Edward Villela and Jessye Norman and, on the night of the gala itself, to be on the stage of the Kennedy Center Opera House, to see once more the incredible contribution each has made over a period of years and to share the honor with the Kennedy family who were present – Senator Edward Kennedy, who never fails to demonstrate his friendship for me on every special occasion in my professional life, my pal Jean Kennedy Smith, Eunice K, Sarge Shriver and Pat Lawford – I’m crazy about them all. They are all unique personalities and after friendships that began almost fifty years ago, our affection for one another remains the same whether we live in the same city or not, see each other very often or not. My face still lights up at the sight of them.

S
o with enormous gratitude, the
work continued. I learned a few things during that year of 1996–1997 – that just like when I began in the theatre at age seventeen, it all was important to me, I needed to accomplish my goal, I needed to prove to myself that I was an actress, a good one. And I wanted the approval of my peers. The vulnerability of my being had never left me and clearly never would. As long as I continued to work and get better, good parts with good people would come my way again. I have taken some chances — acted in a French movie speaking French, no less. That was something — talk about nerves!

The French movie was titled
Le Jour et la Nuit
(Day and Night). Written and directed by Bernard Henri-Levy — a brilliant and highly respected writer, journalist, philosopher — everything. This was to be his first full-length feature film. He came to New York to convince me to be in it. I said that I could speak French well enough to get along socially but to act in France with Alain Delon, Bernard’s wife, the lovely, lovely Arielle Dombasle, and others was quite a different thing. It would terrify me. I have spent enough time with my French friends to know that when they converse with one another the words flow so quickly that I am lost. So acting in French — I would miss all the nuances.

On the other hand, I’d always wanted to be in a French film, being such a Francophile. And to work in Paris — heaven. In addition, Bernard Henri-Levy convinced me he would have a coach who would help me with the dialogue, the scenes etc., and he himself would make sure I understood the scene before we shot it. He was very persuasive. So I said, ‘Yes.’ And guess what? The wardrobe was done in Paris — the movie was shot in Mexico. So not only did I have a problem acting French but also communicating in Spanish. A nightmare. The crew was adorable, though. I remembered the Mexican crew in
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
where Bogie and I spent eight weeks. They are the sweetest people on earth — smiling — happy — but not speedy. Alain, Arielle and the rest of the cast were charming. We each would have villas in Gueravaca and suites in Ziwataneyhu by the sea. Bernard Henri-Levy and his team were excellent but with its being B.H.L.’s first foray into the movie world, he didn’t have as much time as he expected to focus on my French. We got through it miraculously. It was not the best nor far from the worst movie ever made. Again, it was the people, the experiences, but the glaring reality is that when it comes to acting, I’d better stick to English!

H
aving lived alone for more
than twenty years, I think one of the more interesting parts of my life is the luck I have had in having a great collection of friends of all ages. It is the glorious parade of the variety of friendships made both here and in Europe that keeps me going. It is people who change you, who fill and enrich your life. I will do almost anything to keep a friendship alive and well. As of now my friendships of anywhere from twenty to fifty years ago are moving along quite well. There’s an occasional slip or two but nothing major, and these last few years I have happily and luckily made a few new ones of the younger persuasion. I am counting on the combination doing me for as long as I am breathing.

As friendship has been the mainstay of my life – next to my children – the single most important factor in my own sense of well being, the loss of friends, particularly close friends, has been shattering. The most unexpected, heart-stopping loss was Roddy McDowall in 1998.

Roddy had the greatest gift for friendship of anyone I have ever known. He paid attention – more than attention – to his hundreds of friends he had made worldwide. And we each felt that we were the closest, and in a way I suppose we each were. Not a week went by when there wasn’t some word either by phone, fax, postcard if traveling – or actual sight of, face to face. He was extraordinary. He forgot no one. He would call to see if I was headed to California, or heard that I was and then we’d make our dinner dates. Of course we’d speak before and meet before, one on one, but this dinner date had to be locked in. He wasn’t a Virgo for nothing. He was the most organized man I’ve ever known, with filing systems for his extensive movie collection from silent days on, and keeping track of where we all were and what we were doing, plus his work as an actor (a fine one) in theatre, film, TV, book reading. Not a stone left unturned. And all the while laughter. He had so much to give and he gave it all.

Our friendship took hold when I moved back to New York in 1959. He was living here then – he in
Camelot
with Richard Burton and I in
Goodbye Charlie
with Sydney Chaplin. We shared many friends but mostly we shared our lives as actors, as singles living alone – on the constant search, in his words, ‘of gainful employment.’ When he moved to California the connection remained the same. He was someone I looked forward to – loved seeing – loved hearing from. He was always there when I was on Broadway and/or touring in a play, filling me with praise,
telling all who would listen that they HAD to see me in this or that.

Then there were the dinners – ah, those dinners. The cast was always good, usually numbering twelve or more with place cards, silver candlesticks, votives, the dining room always alight with conversation and laughter. Food would arrive somehow – plates filled with meat and vegetables. He had one friend who purported to be a cook or wanted to be one. He never made it. But of course one always said how delicious the dinner was. Having gone to all that time and trouble, it was unthinkable that a negative word be said to Roddy. Anyway, an evening at Roddy’s was not about food. I don’t know who planned the menus but it wouldn’t have changed anything. The meal was always food well bought – often overcooked – still edible – not an inch of space on the plate that was not covered. But we joked and laughed anyway and loved being there and with him.

Ringing his doorbell before entering his house for the usual unexpected but always interesting dinner group. The front door opening slowly with that sweet, mischievous face peering out to see who it was. Upon identifying – opening the door wide – accompanied by a giggle – “Bagel” – his favorite name for me. Then ushering me into the living room where there, sitting around the coffee table, facing the roaring fire, would be Robert Wagner and Jill St John, the Axelrods, my first meeting with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, David Hockney – very, very special, Roddy always proud of his friends, of having brought people together. People who might otherwise not have met.

Another night Bette Davis came. That was a major event for me. I never really got to know her at Warner Bros. But I clearly remember the night at Roddy’s: off in a corner of the living room, Bette holding forth about studio days with an aside to me – ‘You remember what it was like.’ Her first acknowledgement of me and my presence there. She having always been my major idol on the silver screen, me having grown up with her, adoring her, but never having a real relationship with her as I did with Katharine Hepburn.

Two more totally different women you will never find. Bette Davis’s cool, unreachable self. Kate’s direct but, though independent, warm, emotional self. It all boiled down to Roddy who admired so many, loved so many, was loyal to all. Though close to quite a few of us – closeset of all to Sybil Burton Christopher, Kate Burton and Amy Christopher, and Elizabeth Taylor, of course. I just saw
The White Cliffs of Dover
on Turner
Classic Movies the other night. Elizabeth and he had been friends since childhood working together at MGM – so amazing – with friendship growing into adulthood, only ending with Roddy’s illness and death.

Loyalty was a supreme part of Roddy’s character. Every meeting was a celebration. We’d all sit around the living room fireplace from the moment of entry into his house, with sofas and chairs and stools gathered around a coffee table that looked like a wagon wheel on which rested containers of M&Ms, assorted nuts, chocolates, all goodies. It was there we had our before-dinner, and sometimes after-dinner, drinks and coffee. After all that, if it wasn’t too late, Roddy would run a movie, preferably an old one. All in all it was a special evening, special because Roddy made it so.

Our last date came five or six weeks before he died. It was going to be dinner, first at home, then in a restaurant (how unlike Roddy) then he rang me again to tell me his back was acting up – it had been a problem for him, starting years before when he was playing in
A Christmas Carol
and had to lift ‘Tiny Tim’ (who was not so tiny.) We finally decided on lunch at the Bel Air Hotel where I was staying and he preferred. He had been to the doctor, had some painkillers.

When I met him for lunch, he was walking with a cane, something he had not done before. He did not know what else could have put such a strain on his back. Anyway, we had our lunch. Roddy had to leave after a rather short meal because he was unable to sit for too long. I walked him to his red convertible car, gave him a big hug, many kisses and off he went. It never occurred to me it might be something serious. I called him before I left town to see how he was and his response to his medication. Always the same answer, ‘Better. I’m fine.’ I took him at his word.

After I’d been home for a couple of weeks, he called, asked if I was planning to come to Los Angeles. He’d heard I was. I knew then that something was very wrong. I’d been in touch with my dear friend Joan Axelrod, who kept me informed. I had been planning to come out again for work reasons but realizing that Roddy, dear Roddy, was seriously ill, I decided to come sooner. I wanted to spend some quality or half-quality time with him, whatever he could give. Though he, God knows, had a multitude of close friends out there, I felt very isolated being in New York. Meantime one of his most cherished friends, and one of mine, as well, Sybil Christopher, went out to be with Roddy on a daily basis. Sybil
and I became friends in 1951 on my first trip to England. She was Sybil Burton then – married to Richard. She was an instant plus in my life and remains so to this day. And she was major in Roddy’s – she was probably the closest of all and dedicated to him. She would be with him – look after him – keep his spirits up. She loved him – they loved each other.

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.