Emotional Tears, Hollywood Hotel

A recent study "The gender‑specific impact of emotional tears", published in the Motivation and Emotion Journal published by Springer Science (Volume 47, Issue 4, August 2023) was funded by Marie-Curie Actions (Grant Number FP7). The authors of the study: Marie Stadel, Judith K. Daniels, Matthijs J. Warrens, and Bertus F. Jeronimus build their research on previous work of Vingerhoets et al. (2016).  New to the literature were tests of gender differences among the observers (the subjects were all western Psychology students). Additionally, perceived connectedness with the depicted individual only mediated willingness to help in female participants. In males, the willingness to help was significantly lower for a crying male than a crying female. Also, men benefited more from crying when observed by a woman than by a man. Consequently, the preregistered hypothesis that men will display more willingness to help tear-displaying women than men was supported. These results could be interpreted in line with the research by Goodey (1997) that men are traditionally more discouraged from emotional display and especially crying due to cultural norms of hegemonic masculinity. The two-way interaction between displayed gender and participant gender proved significant (F(1, 138) =7.12; p = .009; η2G =0.004). The plot of this interaction revealed that male participants report a significantly lower willingness to help males depicted with tears than females (Fig. 1). 

In the same vein, it has been suggested that men learn to use help-seeking displays such as crying less frequently as it results in less received support (Addis and Mahalik 2003) and, depending on the context, comes with negative appraisals regarding the subject’s competence (Fischer et al. 2013). A refining interpretation given by Reigeluth et al. (2016) posits that men tend to be emotionally expressive only in close relationships but not with strangers, since the latter situation might pose a threat to their reputation. Moreover, research shows that heterosexual men usually form such emotionally close ties in cross-sex friendships and romantic relationships (Coombs 1991), thus always in interaction with a female counterpart. One way to explain the current findings might be that this male support-seeking pattern is also mirrored in their willingness to give support, which would mean that men more readily turn to women for emotional support. Source: https://link.springer.com

Hedda Hopper strongly supported the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) hearings, and was a speaker of the Women's Division at the 1956 Republican National Convention held in San Francisco to renominate the Eisenhower–Nixon ticket. She was so well known for her conservatism that rumor had it she planned to stand up, unfurl an American flag, and walk out of the 23rd Academy Awards ceremony in March 1951 if Jose Ferrer, who was known to be a socialist, should win Best Actor. Screenwriter Jay Bernstein related that when he told Hopper that many people in Hollywood privately called her a Nazi because of her extreme conservatism, the gossip columnist began to cry and replied: "Jay, all I've ever tried to be is a good American." Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons had a combined readership, they claimed, of 75 million in a nation of 160 million. Actually, the heads of the studios had all the real power, but they were nervous too, so they all—stars and bosses—handed the two women heapings of power on a silver platter.  During the Second World War, the Nazis used photographs of Hopper in her extravagant hats for propaganda, as a symbol of "American decadence". 

Her annual income was $250,000, enabling her to live an luxurious lifestyle and maintain a mansion in Beverly Hills, which she described as "the house that fear built." Hedda decried racial intermixing, was a feverish Commie hunter and led the attack that drove Chaplin to Europe. Hopper’s mean-and-nasty take on Hollywood gossip immediately siphoned readers away from Louella Parsons. Some Hollywood insiders speculated that Hopper had been set up with the column thanks to her old friend, mega-producer Louis B. Mayer, who decided Louella Parsons was getting to be too influential for her own good. She was given a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame thanks to her contributions to the motion picture industry. Many would argue she robbed from them, but one thing is for sure—she left an indelible mark on Old Hollywood. In Hollywood, musicals, comedies, and war films reigned: Oklahoma!, Guys and Dolls, The Seven Year Itch, Battle Cry. As film attendance continued to decline—figures had dropped by 50 percent since 1946—studios developed new gimmicks like 3-D movies and widescreen film to lure audiences back to the big screen. Top stars included Grace Kelly, June Allyson, John Wayne, William Holden, Gary Cooper, Marilyn Monroe, Rock Hudson, Marlon Brando, and Clark Gable—all victims of Confidential magazine. Confidential went through like a wrecking ball, smashing idols, tearing down reputations, and devastating egos with too revealing articles.

By the end of 1955, Confidential was selling more copies at newsstands than any other magazine in American history. That summer 1955, Confidential also exposed June Allyson, voted by fans as the nation’s most popular actress. To the public, Allyson was the embodiment of cuteness, perkiness, and spunk. MGM had carefully crafted her screen image as a loyal, steadfast girlfriend and wife with a pageboy haircut and cute dresses with Peter Pan collars. In 1945 she'd wed actor Dick Powell, thirteen years her senior. Their marriage was celebrated as ideal, but it was fraught with conflict. Hollywood had buzzed with whispers about their marital troubles. Some said Allyson was having an affair with Alan Ladd and linked her to the breakup of Ladd’s marriage. “In the last few weeks,” wrote one columnist in February 1955. “It's been rumored a reported split between Alan Ladd and his wife Sue, and there are also whispers of a reported tiff between Dick Powell and his wife June Allyson.” But by the middle of the month, columnists were reporting that Powell and Allyson had “ironed out their difficulties and are off to Sun Valley for a second honeymoon.”

“Do you think June Allyson is too nice to be naughty? Dick’s been hitched to her for 10 years but that doesn’t keep June from busting out all over,” wrote Confidential in Jay Breen’s article “How Long Can Dick Powell Take It?” Allyson was a “five-foot-one inch petite little blonde who looks nice enough for an angel award. But she is one little book that can’t be judged by its cover. June’s fans will howl their heads off at the charge that the cutie with the page boy bob and the Peter Pan collar could ever be a hubby-snatcher. Nor can they be blamed, after swallowing years of a publicity build-up typing her as the ‘girl next door,’ ‘cute as a button,’ and just too nice to be naughty.”

“The one-time Broadway chorus dolly is 31 years old now, a veteran of nearly 10 years of marriage with Powell, and has an uncontrollable itch to push the sugar bowl aside and reach for the spice shelf,” Confidential reported. “It long ago reached the stage where she was admitting it publicly—although off the record.” Every time the studio assigned her to a new leading man in a movie, “her flirtatious ways gave patient Dick Powell something new to sit up nights biting his nails about,” Confidential wrote. Her favorite “stunt” at Hollywood parties was to “latch onto some handsome actor”—usually years younger than Powell—and “duck into a corner until her glowering husband came to take her home.” Confidential described how she “cavorted” with Dean Martin and described her latest “caper” with Alan Ladd. “Alan Ladd and his wife separated—after 13 years of marriage, but both carefully refrained from naming the reason. Who was it? None other than that sweet little Allyson lass, who’d been assigned to make a movie with Ladd and—as usual—had gotten ideas that weren’t in the script.” 

Dick Powell and Allyson contemplated suing Confidential over the pungent article, but they were dissuaded by Hedda Hopper, who advised them to better ignore it altogether. In private, Hedda (not specially friendly towards June, yet sympathetic to her husband), said to Powell, presumably about Dean Martin (who was not her cup of tea): “When you meet him, you should punch him right in the nose.” As TV producer David Susskind would recall: “A good example of rumor-spreading has been in progress, sticking to easy targets in Hollywood, whose inhabitants are losing their patience."  

At the end of the Hollywood Hotel’s three-year radio program, approximately two million dollars worth of services had been extracted from actors for free. As a result, the entire program cost only between $12,500 and $15,000 a week to produce, a fraction of what it would have cost had the actors been paid. Looking back, many stars found it hard to believe that they had actually agreed to appear on the show. Recalled Myrna Loy, who read scenes from The Thin Man on the program, “We didn’t want to—those scenes don’t come across on radio—but the studio made you do it to keep in Louella’s good graces. Talk about blackmail!” The movie stars got points with Louella—and Campbell’s soup. At the end of the show the actors were given a free case, either tomato or chicken. At least that choice was theirs. Producer Bill Bacher was a notorious taskmaster, and rehearsals at times devolved into shouting matches between Louella, Bill Bacher, and the program’s emcee, actor Dick Powell (who defended Louella). 

Some speculation sprang from the fact Louella, being chummy with Powell, had overlooked his affair with Rosemary Lane. Louella knew Powell had avoided Marion Davies' advances to be in good graces with the powerful W.R. Hearst. Joan Blondell had been banned from the Hearst publications, which derived not only due to Davies' jealousy, but also probably due to Louella's trade mentality that considered it a fair swap. Apparently, Louella had minimized in her 1930s columns Blondell's wantonly conduct with some of her co-stars. This succession of complicated personal dynamics would soon reach its breaking point, eventually exploding in the divorce of Powell and Blondell.

When Bacher criticized any aspect of Louella's appearance in Hollywood Hotel (1937), starring Dick Powell and Rosemary Lane, she threw a tantrum. After Warner Brothers had put the project on hold for the winter of 1936, Louella told her readers in the spring of 1937 that Dick Powell, Hollywood Hotel’s emcee, and Ginger Rogers were slated to play the leads. But Rogers backed out of the film, as did Bette Davis, who had also been approached for the lead, and the film was stalled over the summer. Finally in September 1937, the film went into production with Powell and sisters Lola Lane and Rosemary Lane in the starring roles. In addition to Warner Brothers actors Ted Healy, Alan Mowbray, Glenda Farrell, and Hugh Herbert, the real-life Hollywood Hotel players Frances Langford, Ken Niles, and Raymond Paige would appear in the film, along with bandleader Benny Goodman. In the film, Ronnie Bowers, a young saxophonist played by Powell, comes to Hollywood on a short contract with the fictional All Star Pictures. All Star actress Mona Marshall (Lola Lane) reads in Louella’s column that she has been passed up for the starring role in an upcoming film; angry, Marshall refuses to attend a film premiere scheduled for that evening. All Star then finds a stand-in for Marshall to attend the premiere, an aspiring actress named Virginia Sanders (Rosemary Lane), and Bowers is asked to accompany her. 

Though W.R. Hearst was happy with the film, he was still upset with Warner Brothers, and shortly after Hollywood Hotel’s release, Hearst left the studio and went on to produce films at Twentieth Century Fox. In 1934 Louella celebrated her sixth anniversary on the radio with a special broadcast featuring Bing Crosby, Dick Powell, Marion Davies, Mary Pickford, Claudette Colbert, and Jack Benny. She ended the show with a tribute to William Randolph Hearst, who had made “it possible for me to be on the radio all these years.” —Sources: "The Whole Truth and Nothing But" (2017) by Hedda Hopper and "Confidential Confidential: The Inside Story of Hollywood's Notorious Scandal Magazine" (2018) by Samantha Barbas

Christmas in July, Dick Powell, Joan Blondell

A comprehensive new study provides evidence that various personality traits and cognitive abilities are connected. The research has been published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, on March 24, 2023. “Personality traits and cognitive abilities are pillars of individuality,” said study co-author Kevin C. Stanek, at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. “Mapping the architecture of personality-intelligence relations unlocks deep-rooted patterns in human diversity.” In total, they collected data from 1,325 studies, involving over 2 million individuals from diverse demographic backgrounds. This extensive dataset allowed them to analyze the relationships between 79 personality constructs tied to the Big Five personality framework and 97 cognitive abilities. The intellect-related traits (such as curiosity and ideas) were positively correlated with cognitive abilities. “As expected, there are positive relationships between many cognitive abilities and open mindedness. Curiosity, enjoyment of pondering ideas and thinking more broadly were correlated with a host of cognitive abilities,” Stanek explained. Conscientiousness-related traits, involving self-discipline and organization, generally correlated positively with cognitive abilities. Cautiousness, however, was negatively correlated with acquired knowledge (cognitive) abilities. 

Compassion correlated positively with cognitive abilities. “One unexpected discovery from our study concerns the two aspects of agreeableness: compassion and politeness,” Stanek said. “Psychologists think of compassion as a willingness to spend energy on helping others, contributing to the wellbeing of a group, which thereby reciprocally creates a personal social safety net. Politeness, on the other hand, is about following social rules for interacting with others. While these may seem like two sides of the same coin, this research reveals they’re connected to cognitive abilities in contrasting ways.” Stanek said. “That is, the more industrious and compassionate people are, the better their verbal (reasoning) and quantitative (mathematical) knowledge tend to be. Essentially, if you’re industrious and compassionate, you’re likely to be better at transforming your raw talent into concrete knowledge and skills. Emotionally unstable individuals may be suspicious of others and quick to react with intense, often negative, feelings. Such emotional turbulence can take a toll on individuals’ ability to regulate psychological processes, including cognitive performance.” Source: www.pnas.org

For a comedy, Christmas in July dips low early on with the scene on the roof. Jimmy is hopeless and tells Betty he's uncertain he'll have enough money to properly provide for her. Dick Powell really nails this serious and somber scene in ways that audiences weren't accustomed. It feels extremely fitting that after the country was pulling itself out of the Depression, the man who starred in the movies that distracted Americans from their poverty was finally recognizing it on screen. The serious performance from Powell fit him well and was just the beginning of a new stage in his career where he’d lean towards darker plots and tougher characters. A more cynical film would make Jimmy a selfish egomaniac, but here he is a sincerely good, compassionate man, and as such it isn’t hard to get behind his stroke of good fortune, or conversely fear his inevitable downfall. Source: filmschoolrejects.com

David sold his house and sent the money to his wife. Harriet wrote that she was going to the Bahamas for a quick divorce—and he’d be free to remarry in four weeks. “I do hope the new one can stand your silences better than I,” she P.S.’ ed. So we were married in the office of the justice of the peace in Phoenix, Arizona; it was a small, stuffy office, but the only place we could escape the crowds that haunted picture stars. “Read this,” my father said. “Now?” David asked. “Now.” David unfolded the letter and read: "To whom it may concern: Nora Marten, aged eight, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John Marten of “The Boy Is Gone” Company, lost her virginity while tap-dancing at the Wabash Theater, Memphis, Tennessee. Signed, Dr. Clarence Halsey." We listened intently to the justice. “Don’t forget to be generous with your love.” The justice’s voice came back to me: “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Hundred feet below me was Sunset Boulevard. The house was nestled into the top of Lookout Mountain. Many times I’d even knelt on the soft rugs and patted them gleefully. 

We could see from Los Angeles proper to the beach at Santa Monica. A half-hour passed, then Dr. Riley asked David to go into the kitchen. “We can call it peritonitis, Mr. Nolan. I’ll have to operate immediately. She’s a desperately sick girl. I’ll meet you at the hospital. The ambulance should be here soon.” “Nora Marten Bursts Appendix,” the newspapers headlined, and everyone believed it. There were obviously certain key words and phrases used by gossip columnists and fan magazine writers that went far beyond the dictionary definition. An “engagement” between two players generally implied that sexual intercourse had taken place. An actress having “her appendix removed” usually meant that she was having an abortion. “If you didn’t have the constitution of a horse, you might be sterile now,” Dr. Riley told me privately. “For your sake, it better not happen again.”

Four Benedictine and brandies later David gathered Jim and May in the basement to admire his current hobby—electric trains. It took thousands of dollars and nationwide correspondence to get the “to-scale” trains, tracks, stations, lights, people, mountains, hills, valleys, grass, flowers, dirt, signposts, roads, signals. The beautifully lighted miniature countryside covered all but five feet of our huge basement. The studio set designer had refused compensation for making the miniature panorama, so David had surprised him with a new Cadillac as a gesture of appreciation. “David, old pal,” Jim said, his eyes following the speeding trains, “you entertain my lil ole gal while I take your lil ole gal upstairs for a lil ole private talk. What d’ya say?” “Right!” David answered, bent double trying to get a stuck train out of a tunnel. Upstairs, when we were seated in the bay window, Jim said, “I respect you, Nora. You have good common sense. I’m considering marrying May—what’s your advice?” “Do you love her?” 

“Well, hell, she’s a hell of a gal—not many around like her.” Jim continued: “I picked her up the other Saturday morning to grab some chow, and she wanted to know if I’d park by the Bank of America on Highland for a minute, as she had to clip some coupons. I sat out there for two solid hours while she clipped and clipped,” he leaned toward me intensely.  “My!” “We didn’t wrap our lips around a bite until after three-thirty. What do you think about a lil ole wedding?” I paused. I frankly didn’t care much about either of them. My one evening as a guest at May’s home was barren: no cocktails, barely enough chicken to go around, no butter for the air-holed bread, weak coffee, lumpy ice cream, and every lamp in the house had strips of cellophane covering the shade, though she had lived there for over ten years. As for Jim Wilson, well, he was a fabulously popular crooner. 

Next to Bing Crosby he was tops in the nation. I answered his question as truthfully as I could. “I might just take your advice. After all, a gal with her—er—qualifications—well, the first one drank a lot.” “I didn’t know you’d been married before!” “Neither does the press department. Remember me? America’s most desirable bachelor?” He playfully grazed my chin with his clenched fist. “What was she like?” “A beauty—dark, and from my home town. She was seventeen when I took the leap. She was from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks family, but they were okay. Damn glad about the catch their kid made! After all, Nora, I was a thousand-bucks-a-week MC in Detroit, and you know dames. So the little babe was in luck, she didn't have a dime.” I don’t think I like you, I thought. “What happened to the marriage?” “It lasted four years. The first two were fair, and then she started to drink. Jesus Christ, what drinking! I had an important reputation to live up to, so I sent her to one of those cure places—and a pretty penny that was!” He paused. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if she didn’t stop drinking the minute she registered, but as soon as she got home, she’d drain every bottle that wasn’t tied down.” “Any children?” “Nope.” He knocked on the end table. “I’ll tell you something, Nora, a guy shouldn't be single in this town. The gals expect too much—and Jesus Christ, the married babes can hound a guy to death.” “Two can live as cheaply as one,” I deadpanned. “Right!” He grinned. 

“Yoo-hooo there, you two-hooo!” May called breathlessly from the foot of the basement stairs. “David wants you to bring the brandy when you come back.” “All right, baby-doll,” Jim yelled in answer. He pulled me to my feet and threw both his arms around my neck. “We’ll talk about the situation some other time, Nora. I’m not going to rush into anything this serious.” He picked up a bottle of Courvoisier. “Let’s go join ’em, you lil ole box-office favorite, you,” he said happily. I followed as he vocalized: “Meee mooo maw,” all the way down the stairs. Sheely Dawson’s column in the Los Angeles Examiner headlined: "David Nolan and Nora Marten have gone on a camping trip. Kern Brothers gave her permission to rest this week because her eyes blinked too much in close-ups. She and her cameraman husband are Hollywood’s happiest married couple. Their best pal, Jim Wilson, the singingest star in the Hollywood heavens, will join them on their vacation. All female hearts will be shredded if Jim marries May Gould." 

We were driving through the desert above Indio. I had fixed David another bourbon and gingerale out of the stock in the glove compartment. My hands were sticky, and I was very hungry. “You know, David, it’s hard to work under yourself— you know what I mean? I mean, the parts I play are so vacant, dizzy, and wisecracking. . .” “You make people laugh.” “Well, I know, but once in a while I’d like a real heavyweight part, like the kind they give to Greer Garson or Bette Davis. I can do them, too, but I don’t fight for them—do I?” David made no comment, so I continued: “Well, it’s like—if you know how to build a house, it’s hard to just keep building garages all the time.” David smiled. “Your pictures are box office, baby dear.” “It’s just that as long as I have to be an actress, I’d like to run instead of walk.” Early Sunday morning we heard Jim Wilson’s voice bouncing off the trees. “Over the Sea Let’s Go, Men. . .” We were talking about Jim. “Why does he hang around us so much, David—and stag, to boot?” “He likes us. He says we’re homey, he’s lonesome, I guess.” 

“I don't understand why he doesn’t take his romances out places.” “They’re not that kind!” David grinned. “But he takes May Gould to the Clover Club every Saturday night. And to see his pictures over and over.” “Shush, here he is. Hi, old pally!” They whacked each other on the back. I picked up the ice bucket to stave off a Jim Wilson hug. “How’d you get here?” I asked. “I took a plane to Palm Springs—Frank McHugh had an extra ticket he gave me. The taxi driver wanted twenty-five clams from there, so luckily a fan picked me up and dropped me off about half a mile down the road. You turtle doves having fun?” “Have a drink.” David gave Jim a Coke that had been thoroughly spiked. “I never touch the stuff,” Jim quipped. After a swig and a “Wow!” he turned to me. “I brought my new script, sweetie, thought you could cue me on the ride back.” “I will,” I promised. They fixed their fishing rods. [...] I studied the dismal sky through the antique liqueur bottles that lined the shelves of the window. Then my eyes met his. “Jim,” I said quietly, “I can’t get into the hospital to have my baby. We haven’t the cash—and David won’t face it. You have to pay in advance, and because I have a ‘name’ the cost of everything—doctor, everything—is tripled—more. Jim, I can’t listen to ‘don’t worry, baby dear’ any longer. David stopped work when I did, and we live up to the hilt, and—” Jim interrupted: “Christ—no money! What do you kids do with it, for God’s sake?” “I don’t know. This house, our family responsibilities, commissions, alimony, charities, liquor, furniture—”

“How much do you make, Nora?” “Three hundred and fifty a week.” “Jesus Christ Almighty! And you one of the box-office ten? The bastards! Why, Kern Brothers make a pisspot out of your pictures! You ought to walk the hell out until they make a new deal.” “David makes what?” “Two thousand a week—and has for years, but he’s so far in the hole he’ll never catch up. It’s nothing bad he does; he’s just so crazy generous it scares me. You know that fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft boat he got after we were married?” Jim nodded. “Well, he gave it to his dentist because the dentist canceled all other appointments one Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to devote the time to David’s teeth.” “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Jim cursed. “And we still owe those payments on it, Jim. You see, you can’t get mad at David” “Who can’t?” Jim mouthed. “No, really, he’s kind, and he gives me presents all the time. Honest to Pete, if a stranger on the street asked him for a thousand dollars, he’d say, ‘Wait a minute, pally,’ and borrow it from a friend and then give it to the stranger. I’ve seen him do the most incredible things. I don’t know how to manage our money, because I’m bad with money.” 

“What a mess,” said Jim shaking his head. We were silent for a while. Jim poured himself another drink, and I moved to the couch. Speaking low to the pattern of the chintz, I continued: “I love David. He’s my world, and the money worries—well, there’d be a way. We’ll always make enough; it’s the other thing, Jim. . .” “What other thing?” He came from behind the bar and sat on a stool looking at me. “What other thing?” he repeated. “My baby that’s coming. And I want to hear him say something about it. It’s a miracle I want to share with him, but when I try, his eyes fade away and his thoughts can’t be traced.” I finished lamely. “Stop it, Nora.” Jim stood looking down at my bowed head. “David loves you like a madman. He never takes his eyes off you. Nora, listen to me. I agree he seems vague at times, but that’s his way.” He paused. “But that you two damn fools don’t have enough dough to get into a hospital in style! You’re a star, Nora. You owe your public— I’m burned up at David—” “No, don’t be,” I interrupted. “I shouldn’t have told you.” “Nora?” David called from the living room. “Talk to him, Jim; I’ll go wash my face again,” I said as I ran from the den. 

I put on fresh lipstick and a sprinkling of powder; then, composed; I returned to the bar. David and Jim had mixed a highball and were talking about a new Lincoln convertible. David interrupted himself. “Nora, darling—I have a surprise for you.” He smiled. “A surprise?” I returned his smile. He took a small jewel box from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it and stared at the largest square-cut diamond ring I had ever seen. “David—David!” I said bewilderedly. “Ten-carat, set in platinum,” he told me proudly. Jim took it out of my trembling hand and inspected it closely as he asked, “Where’d you buy it, pally?” “A jeweler friend of mine—like it?” “Beautiful,” Jim said solemnly, looking at me. “I knew you’d approve, old boy. Let me freshen your drink.” “No thanks, Dave. Publicity stills first thing tomorrow. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to yourselves.” He tweaked my nose, and made his way out. Early the next morning, delivered by hand, a letter arrived for Mr. and Mrs. David Nolan: "Dear Kids. Happy Hospital. On me. Love and kisses."—Jim. Enclosed was his personal check for a thousand dollars.

Jim’s sure been nice this past year, I told myself. And he’s tried hard to keep me cheered, taking me to see my pictures and his. It was fun the night we danced at the Cocoanut Grove. People swarmed all over us for autographs. I snorted as I recalled Sheely’s miniature scoop: “A little bird tells me there’s a romance lurking between our Jim Wilson and our Nora Marten.” My hands tightened on the wheel. David took unto himself Bride Number Six. But she’s a really pretty girl and nice. I remember her from the chorus of The Parade of Lights. I hope she can penetrate David's fog, I thought, feeling noble. The strains of Jim’s voice over the radio brought my thoughts back to him. I had on a white piqué sheath that made my skin look very dark and my hair very light. “You look pretty dawgone pretty,” he said. I smiled at him. We called good night to Cecilia and were in Jim’s convertible, its top down. “It’ll be fun doing that next musical together,” I said to him. “I read the script, and it’s fairly good. I have two lines I’ve never spoken in a picture before. Do ya think I can manage ’em?” He laughed. “But I don’t get you in the finale, Cagney does.” “Try not to suffer too much, Jim. After all, you’ve got me off screen, y’know.” “Really?” he asked seriously, slowing the car down. I fidgeted for my cigarettes to hide my embarrassment, and asked Jim for his lighter. We both lit cigarettes and rode without speaking for several blocks. “Nora,” he said finally, “let’s drive to the beach and park along the ocean—I want to talk a bit.” “You’ve been reading my mind, Jim.” He crossed over Coldwater Canyon and turned on Sunset toward the coast. I like the way he drives, I thought—very sure of himself.  

Jim parked the car on a ledge overlooking the waves. We watched the phosphorescent blue and white lights as the water sloshed onto the sand. “You think with your heart,” Jim said gently, “and you’d better start thinking with your head. It’s no good otherwise. Regardless of the wire strings God is juggling us around on, you’ve got to face facts. David was no good for you from my way of thinking—no security there. Listen, Nora, you’ve got to have someone protect you against your foolish impulses. Someone who picks up your studio check for you, and budgets you. My God, opening that goddamn florist shop for your brother. What the hell does he know about a flower shop?” Oh, please, I groaned inwardly. My bunch will have everything they want, old smarty-pants Wilson, no matter how you drone on. But I was nonetheless flattered that he was concerned about me and about Jamie’s future. He’s right. I’ll have to change some things. I’m a mess so far, I admitted to myself. “You behave like a drunken Santa Claus, Nora. Emotion and sentiment are well and good in their places, but business is business.” Oh, dear, it doesn’t sound like fun at all, Nora, does it? I asked myself. “Skip your family,” Jim continued. “They’re big kids now. Think of yourself—nobody else will. You hear that? Nobody else ever will,” he emphasized. 

“You’ve got to be respected in this world, be important, and the only way to get into that position is to have a pot full!” He chuckled: “They’re not going to catch this crooner asleep at the switch!” I dozed a bit, but Jim wasn’t aware of it, for his expounding was increasing as the shades of daylight were invading the sky. Finally my head tipped forward, and giving in to my exhaustion from the long, emotional day, I fell asleep. Jim put his arm around me and drew my head to his shoulder. The silence woke me up. “What happened?” I asked. Jim laughed. “I put you to sleep.” “Honestly, Jim, I heard every word, and you’re right.” “That’s my girl.” Jim smoothed my hair and hummed a few bars of “By a Waterfall.” Then he said, “Nora?” “Ummm?” “I had a talk with Jamie while I was waiting for you. I said to him, ‘I wish to God I had a son like you, Jamie.’ He just grinned and whacked me in the nose a couple of times. ‘Cut it out, Jamie!’ I said. ‘I’m not kidding. Let’s figure it out. How can I get a son exactly like you?’ Jamie didn’t come up with an answer, but I did. ‘I know, Jamie,’ I said, ‘I’ll marry your mom—it’s as simple as that.’” His eyes were moist as he smiled. His head was leaning on mine now, and he tightened his arm around my shoulder. “How about that?” he asked softly. “Good idea, Nora?” My throat constricted, and tears flooded my heart as I cried. Looking at Jim’s handsome face, I smiled and answered huskily, “Good idea, Jim.”

The city police and studio bodyguards whisked us through the squealing fans that lined the dock, and into the lavish two-bedroom, living-room, bar, terrace, flowered, champagned, fruit-laden suite Kern Brothers gave Jim and me as a wedding present. Two studio wardrobe women were unpacking the bridal array. After showering and perfuming I was seated at the dressing table in my lacy lingerie looking into the mirror at Sally brushing my hair. “Sally, I can’t—I can’t go through with it. I don’t love Jim, really love, and he’s too nice to hurt.” “Did you ever tell him you loved him?” Sally asked, still brushing my hair. “No, never. When he asked me if I did, and my answer stuck in my throat, he said, ‘Nora, I love you enough for both of us—your honesty is one of the reasons I want you for my wife, and because you’re a helluva good actress, and you’re beautiful! What more could a guy ask for?’ Will I love him in time, Sally? Does that happen?” “I can give you wisecracks, pal—no answers.” Our eyes met in the mirror, and Sally drawled comically out of the side of her mouth, “Fox Movietone News, Paramount, Pathe.” I jumped up and grabbed my friend, half-laughing, half-crying. “Bring on the wedding drag—I’m getting married!”

After a while, I realized that Jim was surprisingly prudish. He will make love only in the dark, furtively, as though we should sit up afterward and smooth ourselves out so teacher won’t know.  And Jim was promising: ‘Sweetheart, there must be happiness ahead. What a grave responsibility actors have. We must all always remember that.” A meeting was called to order, and I recounted all the memorable things that happened on our honeymoon. Jim was at Kern Brothers discussing his upcoming picture. “The day that Jim and I were to make a personal appearance at the Paramount Theater matinee, we were led through dark, cavernous basements and into a service elevator, and up to the fourth-floor dressing room to wait until we were called onstage to bow and throw kisses to the audience.” I paused soberly. “We looked out of the window, and from Forty-fifth Street along Broadway to Times Square—the streets, the sidewalks, the side streets and their sidewalks, were dark with people—a sea of people, all still. All traffic stopped, all faces upturned. Never, as long I live, will I forget that, nor will Jim. Those people—they said there were over a hundred thousand of them—when we leaned out the window and waved, they gave out this thunderous sound as though one powerful voice was calling its love.”

I was worn out after listening to Jim's tirades: “Damned Jews run this business! Damned niggers get some fancy salaries now!” “Quite a wedding present you gave your pal Sally. What’s she going to do with embroidered sheets, for Christ’s sake?” He’s always fuming about his career, his looks, everything! “Is my hair getting thin on top, Nora?” “Is this the best way to part it?” “Is the line okay from both angles?” “When are you going to stop spoiling your family?” “I’m not going to sing anymore, I’m going to do straight roles. It’s an awful effort for me to sing!” “I’m going to sell this house. It’s too expensive to run!” “Should I wear this suit to Zanuck’s party?—or this?” “Goddamnit, food is so expensive. In Mountain Lane, Mother fed four on five dollars a week!” “I’m going to trade in our cars. It’s cheaper in the long run.” “I see where your David Nolan has taken unto himself his seventh wife. All the wives got alimony except you.” “I’ve got to change agents, the son-of-a-bitch does nothing for his ten percent!” “We’ve got to sell this house.” “Next time we throw a party I’m going to pick the booze myself. After a couple drinks, no one knows the difference anyway.” “I’ve got to call T. L.—I hate the script!” “Should I get my teeth capped?” “The goddamned government is killing us with taxes!” 

Our third house in four years was sold, as always, for a profit. Jim chose another in Beverly Hills, and I set about making a home again. Later that night, when Jim had finished his lovemaking, I stretched and thought about Clark, Jim, Henry, Charles, Errol, Ty, Oleg, Bruce, Pasquale, John, George, and Frank. Was I thinking about cheating? Nothing’s secret or sacred in this town, and I have children I must think of. Besides, poor Jim, it would be so insulting—even if he never found out. Jim's and my long-term contracts with Kern Brothers expired at approximately the same time. I asked Jim to take over the negotiations for a renewal. “I’ll make a stab at the big money, choice of pictures, cast approval, director approval, the whole Big Star shebang,” he told me, then added, “I actually hope they don’t buy it, we’ll be better off freelancing.” Kern Brothers didn’t buy it, so we left the studio. His next plan was to sell our Brentwood home, my favorite. “We’ll build a small house at Balboa, cut down expenses, and commute,” he decided. “I’m sick to death of moving!” “It’s one way to make money, Nora, sweetie.” He smiled. So he built the small beach house, and I have to admit I loved it best of all. So did the children and Cecilia. While it was being built, we made separate pictures, but both at Twentieth-Century Fox. One work day Jim called me. “Come over to Stage Ten and we’ll go to the commissary together.” When we drew closer, we could hear the radio. Our faces were tense and white. “The Japs have just bombed Pearl Harbor,” Jim said hoarsely. 

Jim was talking about Jeff Flynn, the hottest producer on Broadway. “He has four smash hits running in New York right now,” Jim told me. “He came out here to see if you and I would costar in his new musical by Cole Porter.” “What did you tell him?” “No, of course. I want to stick with my new image. Paramount has come up with a hell of a script for me.” “How about you working for Flynn?” he asked me. “He told me he’s dying to get you. You love the stage—he said if he got you, you'd have six months with big pay.” So I went to New York to do a Flynn show. “I miss you.” Jim told me on the phone. “Do you, Jim?” “Why do ask that, sweetheart?” “I dunno. I’m homesick.” “Be a good girl, and I’ll call you tonight with the children.” “Bye, Jim.” “Bye, sweetheart.” I hung up and walked over to the mirror. Except for my personal notices, the play was pummeled by the Boston critics. Unperturbed, Flynn saw that Miss Lyte had quarts of milk for her ulcers, and the best typewriter money could buy for her rewrite job. Flynn wined and dined the critics who had blasted his show; charmed them into a million dollars’ worth of columns and editorials. They all but retracted their sour reviews as the two weeks moved on to “standing room only” for the now well-publicized play. “I jes’ put the words in their mouths. They write what I tell ’em!” Flynn bragged so gleefully I had to laugh. Flynn was alongside me all the time, cheering me on like a football coach. 

“You’re wonderful, Nora. You’re the greatest there is. You’re a stand-up dame, if I ever saw one.” His eyes would glisten as he searched my face. I felt flattered and at a loss. He kept my hotel suite and my theater dressing room banked with flowers. He gave me a delicate, imported music box; an antique from Cartier. Flynn also personally took over the direction of the new scenes, which seemed to please the uninterested Mr. Kaufman. During my nightly calls to Jim I’d tell him about the gifts. “I don’t feel right about accepting them, but he just won’t listen when I ask him not to give them.” “He got a crush on you?” “I guess so.” After a slight pause, Jim said, “I told you he spends money like water. Be a good little girl, and I’ll talk to you soon.” I hung up with a bang. Damn it, he could get a whisker burned. How trusting can you get? I threw a pillow against the window and went to bed. The hors d’oeuvres arrived, and Jeff grabbed the tray. We drank in a silence that made me uneasy. Looking out the window at the passing lights, I felt his eyes on me. I half can’t stand him, and I’m half-pleased that I never seem to be out of his thoughts. It’s weird and unnerving, I told myself. He whispered into the silence. He said people assumed Dawn Lyte was his girl, but they were just pals.” “Your wife—didn’t she mind, about you having someone else?” “She leads her own life.”

“You ever cheated?” Flynn asked. The drinks had warmed me: “A guy got me as far as his bedroom once. He must have been counting on me, because he had the bed covers turned down and a gardenia on the pillow. Unfortunately for him, the cellophane wrapper was still on the gardenia. It struck me so funny I ran from the room laughing, and there’s nothing as unsexy as laughing at the wrong time!” I giggled. “Saved by a gardenia wrapper! I should say, the guy was nice and flattering, and Jim and I had a problem. . . ” “What kind of problem— sex?” “Oh, I don’t know—don’t ask me. Jim. . .” I paused. “Anyway, I love Jim. Fix me me a drink and shut up.” “You’re an exciting dame.” We had the best dinner I had ever eaten on a train, served as he demanded it. Then he talked until midnight telling me about his youth. I listened, only half-believing the crazy experiences he related. He touched my hair tenderly as he left, and I tossed the rest of the night, still feeling the touch. Unclad Millie opened in Pittsburgh, as in Boston, to full houses and bad reviews. Dawn Lyte typed page after page of new plot and dialogue. Money was no good, and Flynn said: “So we’re gonna have you pick up a mink coat at Bergdorf’s—ten thousand clams’ worth—how about that?” “Jeez, great.” I phoned Jim, who said: “Nora—for God’s sake—a mink coat! Make ’em give you a diamond ring or a down payment on some property—a mink coat is perishable.” 

My temper flared. “I want it.” “Okay, okay,” Jim answered, “but it’s not very practical.” “I want it.” “Okay—I’m due on the set, talk to you later.” I hung up. I took a cigarette out of my case and lit it myself, although Flynn held a lighted match for me. Jeff Flynn got me to an exclusive restaurant on the outskirts of Pittsburgh after the show. Jeff had been talking through my thoughts. Only now did I hear what he was saying. “I suggest you have ’em followed. I know the guys to do it. You’ll have proof of the monkey business in case he wants the children when you get a divorce.” “Divorce?” I felt nauseated during the frantic opening in New York. When the detailed reports of Jim’s rendezvous in Amy O’Brien’s Wilshire Boulevard apartment started coming in I was too sick to read them. I left that to Jeff. The “detectives” even furnished a recording of what the lovers said to each other. Flynn was devotion itself, and I made no effort to discourage it. The eerie daylight poured over our nakedness. Again and again we made love until the hot sun covered us. “I love you, Nora. I want to be married to you, my Nora.” Jeff scrambled eggs, onions, and lox together, toasted bagels, and brewed coffee. And we devoured all of it. “This is a kind of a Jewish breakfast, isn’t it?” I asked him. “Are you Jewish?” “Only on my mother’s and father’s side.” “How come the Irish name?” “My real name is Jacob Ginsberg.” I wanted to be fresh, to keep myself scrubbed to meet my children. But we made love again.

Jim knelt down beside the bed and took my hand in his, pressing it to his heart. "Jim!” I cried suddenly. I raised myself to my elbows. "What is it, darling?” he asked. "Jim—listen now, and don’t say one word until I finish.” "I won’t, sweetheart,” Jim promised, though he was sure I was delirious. "Think back,” I said, very slowly, “it was about four years ago—at the Park Central Hotel. I was at the cashier’s window, and I was waiting to buy a stamp, and I. . .” In amazement he picked up my story: “and you dropped the letter, and we bumped heads. Then you hollered when I tried to mail it for you. Nora, it was you—that dear girl was you! You sailed around the revolving door three times.” “And you smiled at me, Jim, and I walked on air.” “And I wanted to follow you—couldn’t get you out of my mind. Nora, it’s crazy—that was us.” “Jim, I felt something familiar when you first spoke to me on the set.” “And I knew there was something about your eyes, Nora. Oh, darling.” He held me in his arms rocking me back and forth. —Center Door Fancy (1978) by Joan Blondell

Bogie & Bacall: The Surprising True Story of Hollywood's Greatest Love Affair

Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall both had 'emotional affairs', but remained 'devoted to each other', author William J. Mann asserts in his new book Bogie & Bacall: The Surprising True Story of Hollywood's Greatest Love Affair. Humphrey  Bogart “was already a serious drinker by the age of 22,” and his drunkenness often resulted in public brawls. Married and divorced twice, his third marriage was foundering when he was cast opposite newcomer Bacall—producer Howard Hawks had just changed her name from Betty—in To Have and Have Not. Bacall, 18 at the time, recalled thinking that “he was a good actor, but I never palpitated over him like many a lady did… He was not the prince on the white horse that I had imagined.” Nevertheless, by the end of filming, they had become lovers, and in 1945, they married. The ambitious Bacall also craved her absent father’s love; despite undeniable success, she felt like an imposter, “unworthy of what she’d been given, while at the same time convinced that she deserved more.” Bacall and Bogart's marriage was never as simple as a silver screen idyll. A passage unpacks Bacall's fascination with the presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson, reading between the lines of her memoir to understand their relationship. In Bacall's own words, it's clear the two had, at the least, 'an emotional affair,' if not also a physical one. Another affair that Bogart was somewhat wary of was with Frank Sinatra. 

On the campaign train to Pennsylvania, while Bogart dozed, Bacall and Adlai Stevenson huddled in close conversation. "At every speech from the beginning—every platform, breakfast, lunch—Stevenson would catch my eye and wave and smile at me," Bacall wrote. "To my fantasizing mind he seemed so vulnerable." Such intimacy was bound to cause talk. Stevenson was the first major-party nominee to be divorced. "For glamour, the Democrats have beautiful Lauren Bacall," one newspaper observed. By the end of the campaign, Bacall was thoroughly smitten. Stevenson, she believed, "needed a wife, someone to share his life with." In her memoir, she was remarkably candid about her feelings. "I fantasized that I would be a long-distance partner, a good friend he could feel free to talk with about anything." What she wanted was to be "connected with a great man capable of bettering the world"—something her own husband wasn't apparently capable of. "It takes one person," Bacall wrote, "who has real passion to unleash one's own comparable passions." Having met Adlai Stevenson had changed Bacall's life. "I was never the same again," she said.

Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart are arguably Hollywood's greatest love story, but their relationship was nuanced and complicated. Bacall was 28 when she met Stevenson. She was just 20 when she'd married Bogie, who was 25 years her senior. Their legend would play down the personal cost of their age difference. When Bacall met Stevenson, she was in the prime of her life; Bogie had long since passed his. He was increasingly frail, years of heavy drinking and smoking taking their toll. Bacall had never been able to sow her oats the way Bogie had done in his own youth. So, she was doing that now, making her own decisions and establishing her own relationships, discovering that she liked being Miss Bacall at least as much as being Mrs. Bogart. On election night, Bogie had a virus and stayed back at the hotel. Bacall did not stick around to care for him. "Having come this far," she wrote, "I was not about to miss anything." At the governor's mansion, the expectant jubilation quickly turned into despair as Eisenhower won in a landslide. Bacall was overcome as she listened to Stevenson make his concession speech. "I sobbed my way back to our room," Bacall wrote, where she found Bogie more upset about running out of quarters for the pay TV set than he was about the election. 

"Until Adlai Stevenson, I was a perfectly happy woman with a husband whom I loved—a beautiful son and daughter—some success in my work—a beautiful home—money—not a care in the world." But Stevenson, she wrote, "shook me up completely." On the flight back to L.A., "I was far away from Bogie," Bacall admitted, "my thoughts on the man I had left behind." She was determined "not to have Stevenson vanish completely" from her life. Her husband was starting to object. "Miss Bacall supports wholeheartedly Governor Stevenson, up to the vomiting point," Bogie noted dryly to his friend and director John Huston. During the campaign, Bogie had shared an idea with his wife for a cartoon: Bogie and their two kids would be at their front door. Stephen would ask, "Daddy, where's Mommy?" and Bogie would reply forlornly, "With Adlai." Still, when Bogie was in Italy shooting Beat the Devil, Bacall flew to New York. At a party being given for Stevenson, she was "not at all sad to be the only Bogart present." After the soiree, the governor took Bacall on his arm and escorted her back to her hotel. In her telling of it, Bacall seems to have been hoping he would come upstairs with her. "I wanted to talk to him alone, to talk personally," she wrote. "Though I wasn't sure he would get that personal with me, the implication was that he would." If she made the offer, Stevenson declined. Had she been prepared to begin an extramarital affair with Stevenson that night? A close read of her memoir gives the impression she was. "He did like to flirt," she wrote about Stevenson, "and he did know I had a solid crush on him." 

She made all the obligatory qualifications: "It wasn't that I was dissatisfied with Bogie or loved him any less, but Stevenson could help a different, obviously dormant part of me to grow." In her fantasy, she could have it both ways: "Short of leaving husband and home—which I had no desire or intention of doing—I would see Stevenson when I could and keep the thread of my presence alive in his consciousness." While in New York, the pair arranged to meet again in California, where Stevenson was giving a speech. At the designated time and place, Bacall was right up front. "Stevenson caught my eye—or I caught his—or we caught each other's," she wrote. They planned a rendezvous in Palm Springs, where the governor was heading for some rest. With her "imagination going at full tilt," Bacall headed out to the desert, her children left with nursemaids. "I was included in all his activities which only fed my fantasy," she wrote. She accompanied Stevenson to dinners with friends. If a sexual relationship developed between the two, it was likely there, in the shadow of the San Jacinto Mountains and far away from watchful eyes. Bacall was eager to see Stevenson again, but Bogie, now home from Italy, declared, "Absolutely not!" 

Her husband's jealousy, Bacall wrote, "had come out before and would again. He held himself in check most of the time, but when it got to be too much, he let loose." She defied him and flew to Illinois, which was surely a sharp slap to Bogart's ego. Still, things didn't turn out the way Bacall wanted, either. Any hope for the sort of intimacy she had enjoyed with Stevenson in Palm Springs was dashed. Other people were always around. "All very proper," Bacall wrote. Buffie Ives was more hostile than ever, asking her "very pointedly" about her husband and children. "I was flattered that she might consider me a threat," Bacall wrote. But the threat had likely been overestimated. The next day, on her way to the airport, Bacall stopped by Stevenson's farm in Libertyville to say goodbye. She found Adlai entertaining one of his "devoted followers," whose name she claimed not to remember. Although they exchanged warm farewells, the Bacall-Stevenson romance had come to an end. Although she would continue to speak highly of Stevenson and would support him for president again, the intensity of their interactions was now in the past. Bacall got onto the plane and returned to her husband and children.

When Bogie got sick a few years later, Bacall was steadfast; she really did love him, even if she wasn't always emotionally faithful to him. There would be a similar infatuation with Frank Sinatra a couple of years after Stevenson, one that would linger past Bogie's death. But Bogart, too, had his own emotional infidelity, turning to his old flame Verita "Pete" Thompson, closer in age and temperament to him, as Bacall began pursuing independent amours. Yet none of this should undercut the love story of Bogie and Bacall. Absolute fidelity need not be a requirement for true love. They believed in and boosted each other. In the beginning, Bogie had nurtured a young woman inexperienced with fame and public life. At the end, Bacall slept beside her eighty-pound husband in his hospital bed. Hollywood tells stories that give us legends; the truth gives us human beings who have their own stories beyond the eyes of the world. After receiving his prognosis, Bogie’s stress and resentment made him self-destructive, drinking until dawn. At one point during this period, drunk as a skunk, he attempted to eat glass, going “too far with his peculiar humor,” the agent Irving “Swifty” Lazar said, and cutting his mouth severely. Bacall did her best to subdue him; she was still the only one who could.  

Bogie saw what was happening. His wife’s career was at a standstill. Their social life was nonexistent, except for when friends came to visit. He knew that Betty needed a break and that she missed the carefree antics of the Rat Pack. “Bogie would make me go to dinner,” she recalled. “Because he wasn’t up to it, he said, was no reason why I should stay home all the time.” Although he had come to depend on her for most everything, “realistically he felt I had to get out once in a while,” she wrote. Yet the fact remains that her return to society meant a return to Sinatra’s society, and that only deepened her attachment to the famous singer. Bogie had to know that would happen, but he encouraged his wife’s respite. Sinatra became Betty’s sounding board about Bogie’s care, his doctors’ advice, and whether she should return to work. “There’s no question that she became more fixated on Sinatra during Bogie’s illness,” said her publicist. “Sinatra was young and healthy and vibrant, such a change from oxygen machines.” 

For the most part, Betty and Frank avoided being seen in public, tending to socialize with others from the Rat Pack in their homes. They were, however, spotted together at the Art Aragon–Cisco Andrade prizefight. As with Stevenson, Betty developed an increasingly proprietary attitude regarding Sinatra. And also, as with the earlier relationship, it has never been fully clear how Frank returned Betty’s feelings. When Bacall ran into Sinatra at Romanoff’s not long after, Betty made a point of sitting in Sinatra’s lap, even as Bogie, on one of his rare outings, sat beside them. It’s very possible that Bogie’s distancing himself from Sinatra had as much to do with his mob connections as it did with his wife’s infatuation. Even if Sinatra’s relationship with the mob was more “mutual admiration than affiliation,” just the perception of impropriety would have been enough to keep Bogie away. But not Betty. A few nights later, she was back in the audience for Frank’s show, knowing that once he sang his last number, the floor would be hers. Natalie Schafer, with whom Bogie appeared in the TV adaptation of The Petrified Forest, remembered visiting him toward the end. “He turned to me one day when we were talking alone,” she told an interviewer, “and he said, ‘Keep your eye on Betty. Don’t let her get mixed up with those jerks out there.’” 

Just who he considered “those jerks” to be is unknown. He clearly didn’t mean his friends, Niven, Romanoff, or people such as the Durochers and Goetzes. But there were those out there whom he worried about. The Sands was full of them. Despite his serenade of Betty, Sinatra’s date for the week was reported to be Kim Novak, and Earl Wilson reported that he was on the phone regularly with “his beautiful protégé” Peggy Connelly. Wilson revealed that Frank had phoned all his friends back east to go see Connelly’s debut at the Blue Angel nightclub. “Results: biggest opening there ever,” Wilson wrote. Connelly was seven years younger than Bacall; Novak was nine years younger. The doctors suggested that injections of nitrogen mustard might help with the pain, but they clearly saw it as a palliative, or possibly as an attempt to keep Bogie’s hopes up. But the nitrogen only made him dizzier and more nauseous. At least once, he fainted when he stood up from bed. To get around the house, he now had to literally lean on Betty. He apologized for being a burden on her. She wouldn’t hear of it. “I love you to lean on me,” she told him. Bogie said nothing about dying. So Betty kept up the game. After all, he had told her. “If you’re okay, then I am. If you’re upset, then I am.” She choked back her emotions and put on a cheerful face. friend. It’s to be hoped that at the end of his life, some of the old demons were at last chased away and Bogie finally understood what it felt like to be loved. 

After Bogie's death, Betty seemed to find her proximity to the dangerous elements of Sinatra’s life exciting. She’d been current as Bogart’s wife for twelve years, but now she was adrift, looking for a way to stay on top. And no one was more current than Frank Sinatra. It’s also true that he was very solicitous toward her at a time when Betty needed some tender loving care. Frank took her for drives down to Palm Springs, showed up at Bellagio Road with flowers in hand, invited her to join him at the Villa Capri. He was sexy, dynamic, vital. He made Betty feel alive after the long ordeal of Bogie’s illness and death. Betty admitted that she found Frank “wildly attractive, electrifying” and indulged herself with a belief that “behind that swinging façade” lay “a lonely, restless man, one who wants a wife and a home.” “A favorite subject of speculation in romance-conscious Hollywood today is whether Frank Sinatra will marry Lauren Bacall, widow of his good friend, Humphrey Bogart,” reported the Associated Press. Both parties denied that there were wedding bells in their future, but that didn’t stop the talk. But then, all at once, he asked her to marry him. According to Betty, Frank said he was finally facing up to his feelings for her. Betty had imagined such a moment many times, and now that it was happening, all her doubts retreated from her mind and she immediately said yes. They called Swifty Lazar to join them in a celebration at the Imperial Gardens, a Japanese restaurant on the Sunset Strip. “I was giddy with joy,” Betty remembered, “felt like laughing every time I opened my mouth. My life would go on. The children would have a father. I would have a husband. We’d have a home again.” At first, Lazar was convinced that they were putting him on, but he finally raised a glass to toast them. 

According to Betty’s account, they brainstormed about where they would hold the ceremony. When a fan came up to their table and asked for their autographs, Sinatra told Betty to put down her new name. She wrote, “Betty Sinatra.” Still, they agreed to wait awhile before making the announcement. Not long after that, while Frank was performing in Miami, Betty accompanied Lazar to the theater, where they ran into Louella Parsons. At least, this was the story as Betty would tell it. When she spotted Betty, the columnist pounced, asking the usual question about when she and Sinatra would tie the knot. Betty suggested, a bit brazenly, that Parsons ask Frank. Before she could spill any more beans, she wrote in her memoir, she made a beeline for the ladies’ room. When she emerged, she saw Lazar and Parsons deep in hushed conversation but thought nothing of it. That was, until the next morning, when she spotted a headline in the Los Angeles Examiner: LAUREN ANSWERS YES TO SINATRA’S PROPOSAL. It wasn’t just an item in Parsons’s column; it was a full-fledged news story, syndicated across the country. Betty recalled, but he didn’t seem overly upset. Bacall had many reasons for insisting, first to Sinatra during that phone call and later in her memoir, that she had not divulged the secret to Parsons. But Parsons told a different version of the story. According to the columnist, she didn’t run into Bacall at the theater but rather at an after-party thrown by Zsa Zsa Gabor, whose sister Eva was starring with Noël Coward in a production of his play Present Laughter at the Huntington Hartford Theatre. In her memoir, Betty wrote that the show had been Emlyn Williams’s tribute to Charles Dickens. However, newspapers confirm that it was the Coward show, playing at the Huntington Hartford the night before Parsons published her scoop.

That seems to lend more credence to the columnist’s version. According to Parsons, there was no encounter at the theater, no mad dash to the ladies’ room. Instead, she said, she had posed the question at Zsa Zsa’s party, to which Betty had responded, “Why don’t you telephone Frank in Florida?” That much, at least, conforms with Bacall’s account, but Parsons went on to assert that the actress “finally admitted that Sinatra had asked her to marry him.” The columnist quickly followed up, “And you’ll say yes?” To which Betty answered, “Of course.” For all her reputation for skullduggery, Parsons was usually scrupulous about confirming stories, at least the ones she presented as fact and not just as rumors. She was clearly confident about this story, which was why the Examiner ran it as news. Parsons backed up her scoop with other sources: she’d gotten a tip from someone who’d overheard the talk of marriage at the Imperial Gardens, possibly the fan for whom Betty had signed her “new name.” Parsons also got Lazar to confirm the story. “It’s true. They’ll marry,” he said. Betty would claim that Lazar had made the statement on his own. But Parsons was clear that it was only after Bacall had already confirmed it. In the days after Parsons’s report, the story took off like wildfire, with most headlines along the lines of BACALL ADMITS SHE WILL MARRY SINATRA. It’s likely that the accretion of reports caused Sinatra to lose his cool and blame Betty. After a few days of silence, he called and asked, “Why did you do it?” She pleaded innocence, insisting that it had all been Lazar’s fault. Rightly or wrongly, Frank didn’t believe her. The roller coaster finally came to a complete stop. —"Bogie & Bacall: The Surprising True Story of Hollywood's Greatest Love Affair" (2023) by William J. Mann