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 She
was an hour early, the first time. I bolted from my office to the
stage the minute I got word of her arrival. Most of the staff, except
those required who were naturally nowhere to be found, gathered on
the stage and cowered off to the side in awe. She was wearing a cherry
red dress with a tiny white pattern that had Rex the cameraman in
fits. "The fucking dress" was wreaking havoc with the video levels,
he complained loudly to the director; couldn't she wear something
else?
Bette Davis looked heartbreakingly perfect. Truly one of the screen's
most sublime, luminescent beauties, she didn't shy from the camera's
unkind eye. The vestiges of a life robustly led and lately afflicted
by cancer were proudly worn as badges of courage. This was no reclusive,
aged glamour queen. To match the exquisite offending dress she wore
a straw hat ringed by a broad red ribbon. Her accessories were Puritan
white: gloves, stockings, shoes, beads and button earrings. She
was adorable.
I have never been so terrified of eighty pounds in my life. "Well,"
she spat, "we'll just have to come back," and beckoned her assistant
to follow (up to this point, the girl's main responsibility had
been lighting cigarettes, readying handy replacements for whenever
her boss stubbed one out). Allowing that since "they weren't ready"
for her, and she hadn't brought anything else to wear, and if someone
had just told her this was going to happen, and now she'd have to
come back, she disgustedly prepared her exit. After growling to
Rex that he could damn well make the dress work, the director
set to placating his perturbed star (and following the trail, it
occurred to me, blazed by such notables as Michael Curtiz, William
Wyler and Joseph Mankiewicz, to name a few). He assured her they
were indeed ready for her, although the interviewer had yet to return
from lunch. When she arrived on the set, earlier than the appointed
time, the forewarned reporter dutifully apologized for her tardiness.
While Rex wrestled with his monitor and his sailor's mouth, he seemed
to sense that with Bette Davis he was out of his league. Various
staff members took their best shots at distracting the Divine Ms.
Davis, while the interviewer hustled to get camera-ready. No suitor
was her match though, and every challenge to her irritation was
tossed disdainfully aside. One brave A.D. friend of mine boldly
introduced himself, and then, as an afterthought, introduced me.
I dared meet her disinterested gaze for but an instant, as my friend
proceeded to tell Ms. Davis all the nice things her Whales of
August director had to say about her at Telluride. "A despicable
man," she hissed back, more agitated than mollified.
I had seen enough. I revered her too much to annoy her. I would
leave her in peace, I thought, and handed the sepia-toned postcard
of a 1940 headshot I'd brought for her to sign to a more courageous
colleague, and slunk off the stage. Bless her heart if Bette Davis
didn't sit on that stage for two hours after the interview, until
every last person who wanted an autograph had one. My intrepid friends
returned from the set with tales of her kindness, generosity and
good cheer. I cursed my cowardice and the missed opportunity.
 That
I was given a second chance is a blessing I take none too lightly.
It was fully a year and half later when Bette Davis called the show
with an axe to grind. The story we had just run on her latest movie,
Wicked Stepmother, was all wrong. She said that both the
film's director and our story had done her a great disservice, and
asked for equal time. She certainly had a point about the director,
who made a freak show of a legend he wasn't worthy of holding a
door open for, forcing a garish red wig and vulgar blue shadow make-up
on the ailing yet indefatigable diva. She insisted that she wasn't
impossible, as our story suggested, rather just fiercely protective
of her image and her work, and determined that they be respected.
It was when the director's intentions to humiliate her became clear,
she explained, that she felt compelled to walk off the production
after only a week of filming. This wasn't pure ego, either. It was
the sincere belief (alas, of a bygone era) that one's public deserved
the best one could offer, and Bette Davis was worried about what
her fans might think if they saw her in the unflattering, ridiculous
light she unwittingly found this director painting her in.
Bette Davis had not changed in a year and a half: she was flawlessly
attired and I again cowered in her presence. She wore elegant black
this time, sporting a black felt hat with a veil of lace with tiny
pearls. Her black gloves and handbag also were trimmed in pearls.
But there was something different: the lioness I recalled had been
tamed. Bette Davis was a pussycat. Oozing charm and benevolence,
she regaled us all with ribald tales from Hollywood's Golden Age.
My boss was conducting the interview this time, making my presence
slightly more legitimate and affording me a prime off-camera spot
from which to watch in wonder. After hearing her side of the story,
I was convinced that a grievous injury had been done to Bette Davis
by her insensitive, oafish director, who, if we're lucky, shall
remain as obscure and unimportant as he presently is.
Her business completed, her reputation righted, Ms. Davis once again
graciously entertained all requests for pictures and autographs.
With my boss at my side to embolden me, I presented her an 8 x 10
from a recent photo shoot to sign. I heard my boss formally introduce
us. As I reached for the tiny frail hand she extended, I was stupefied
to hear her announce, rather definitively, "We've met." I met her
kind gaze and gently clasped her gloved hand in mine and said, "Yes.
We have."
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