Screenland (Nov 1944-Oct 1945)

day, alter hearing that Max Gordon was about to rehearse a road company of "My Sister Eileen," she accosted him on the street. Practically dog-trotting beside him, she panted: "I'm Betty Bacall, Mr. Gordon, and I'm sure that I'd be a real asset to your road company. I've had lots of experience, and I'm a very good actress and " "We have a reading this afternoon at two," Gordon replied, smiling at her breathlessly serious manner. "You report." Lauren called the clothing company for which she was modelling and told of a sudden, mysterious illness which had overtaken her, and how she must go to the home of a friend and lie down for a few hours. She reported to Gordon at two, was put on the stage, and proceeded to read the lines hanging onto the back of a chair which was practically in the wings. "Come out into the open. Miss Bacall," said Gordon. Lauren stuck to her post. "What else could I do?" she recalls. "I was perspiring, I was shaking so I could hardly hold the script, my knees were wobbling, and if I'd let go of the chair I'd have fallen flat on my face." If she had taken the road job, she'd have been out by Christmas, 1941. She had several readings, and also read for George S. Kaufman, Brock Pemberton and John Golden. Then she met Paul Lukas, who was starred in the famed "Watch On The Rhine." Lukas was very sympathetic, gave her a lot of good advice, one line of which she quotes, verbatim: "The most important thing is sincerity. Don't try to act. Live what you are doing." Lukas advised her against going on the road. She might be away from Broadway for a year or two, and your career would be postponed that long." Lauren's career from this point on was very spotty. She got a full taste of rehearsals, road openings, draughty stages, hard work. She won a "walk-on" in "Johnny Two-by-Four" at $15 per week, and played it for two months, three weeks on the "subway" circuit — meaning New York's lesser houses and in nearby cities. In 1942, Max Gordon gave her a chance in "Franklin Street." Scared to death, she reported in flat shoes and a cotton dress. She wore no make-up and had her hair pulled back tight against her head. "I was tall and I looked older, and I wasn't taking any chances," she explained. For a while Lauren played the part of Adele. Then Kaufman, who was directing, summoned her. "This is it," she told herself. "I'm going to be fired." She waited for the blow to fall, only to find that Kaufman wanted her to switch parts with another girl and play the character of Maude. "Franklin Street" opened in Wilmington, Delaware, went to Washington. Mrs. Roosevelt attended a performance and Lauren was ah a-dither. But even Mrs. Roosevelt's generous applause failed to put the piece over and it folded, after about a fortnight. Lauren got $50 per week for this chore, was hopelessly broke when the last curtain fell. She was pretty blue when she got back to New York. Turhan Bey and his best girl — his mother. "I'm going to introduce you to the fashion editor of a national magazine," a gentleman of her acquaintance said. "You'll get a good break." "But I don't want to model any more," she protested. " "I'm an actress now." Nevertheless, she did meet the editor, did pose, did model a blouse, and the caption said "young actress." It was this picture and this caption that Mrs. Howard Hawks, the wife of the producer-director saw in her home nearly 3,000 miles away, and showed to her husband. "That girl has possibilities," Mrs. Hawks said. "I'll test her," said Hawks, who is credited with many film discoveries, the latest prior to Lauren being Universal's Ella Raines. So Lauren got the telegram and, just as she dashed after Max Gordon she dashed to California, figuring that if she was a bust she'd go right back to New York. She brought her pet golden cocker spaniel, "Droopy," with her, but left her mother at home, as she didn't want to waste two round-trip tickets on a wild goose chase. She waited four weeks for her test. She played a" scene from "Claudia." Hawks invited her to see it. "I sank lower and lower in my seat," she said. "I hoped the projection room would swallow me." After it was over. Hawks turned to her and asked: "What do you think?" "I think," she replied, "that maybe I ought to be a dish-washer." Nevertheless, Hawks put her under personal contract. He told her to read everything she could aloud. As months drifted by, she went into the hills above Beverly Hills and read at the top of her voice. She tried Shakespeare, newspapers, poetry and various modern plays. A cruising police car stopped one day, and its occupants asked her what she was doing. "I'm .studying," she said. "I'm an actress." The pair shook tolerant heads, went on cruising. They were used to things like that. The studying lasted about five hours each day. Came her six months option and it was lifted. Hawks congTatulated her on keeping the pitch of her voice down. She'd expected to be fired. Then she was summoned for her test opposite Bogart for "To Have And Have Not." Bogart played a fisherman, running free French on the side at Fort du France, Martinique, in 1940. Lauren was cast as a drifter, frank, down-to-earth, stranded in Martinique by lack of funds. Lauren, unassuming, frank and sincere, was a hit on the sets at once. Bogart went out of his way to coach her, insisted on having lines re-written to improve her part, "stood-in" off-scene in close-ups so that she could look at him and get more out of her lines than if she was addressing empty space. There was considerable horse-play. Bogart, in playful mood, hand-cuffed her to her dressing room door. Everyone was very kind and solicitous, but nobody unlocked the hand cuffs. She called for a glass of water, pretending thirst, and when Bogart got within range she gave it to him. Rushes indicate a great find. Lauren, following Lukas' sterling advice and her own instincts, is being Lauren Bacall on and off screen. She has sent for her mother, who is now in Hollywood and seeking employment. They live in a modest furnished apartment in Beverly Hills with "Droopy." Lauren loves the sun, and the streak of light blonde hair which the sun has put in her hair. She loves to swim. She hates night clubs. She says: "If you like someone, you don't have to go to a night club to have a good time. If you are so bored with a person that you have to go to a night club to relieve the monotony you're not very bright to go out with him." Lauren, intent on a career, admits being in love. She says she has been for eight months, that the man is not in motion pictures, not in the services, and is in a profession. Further than this she won't go. "My career comes first," she says. "As long as I'm not going to marry right away, let's be mysterious." Lauren believes that her hard knocks have made her a better actress than she might otherwise be, thinks schooling is necessary and recommends college "if you haven't the ambition to educate yourself." Bette Davis is still her favorite actress, Paul Lukas her favorite actor, George S. Kaufman her favorite stage director. She is still a bit wide-eyed over the patience of Howard Hawks, and thinks it's wonderful he should have paid her salary for so long while she was bringing in absolutely nothing. She's mighty grateful. Lauren doesn't own a fur coat, and when she "steps out" she wears a black chesterfield which has a black velvet collar, and which is two years old. The day we talked she was without make-up, wore a tailored beige suit, high-heeled slippers and a chartreuse blouse. She says she likes slacks better, and runs around her apartment in bare feet. She is glad her mother isn't the stage door type. Probably her greatest ambition is to own a boat, not a yacht, but the kind you open cans in and just sun yourself. "Droopy" is her best pal, and she confesses that when she gets low she puts a symphony on her phonograph and proceeds to confess all to him. He seems to understand. 68 SCREKNL AND