The Books: “Me: Stories Of My Life” (Katharine Hepburn)

Daily Book Excerpt: Entertainment Biography/Memoir:

Me : Stories of My Life, by Katharine Hepburn

If there was an editor within a 10-mile radius of Katharine Hepburn’s manuscript for this book, you would never know it. It’s full of dashes, interruptions – “Let me tell you about – oh no, wait, I forgot – let’s go back a bit, I need to set up the story …” The whole book reads like that. It’s not a criticism, really, just an observation. To be honest, I loved the choppy feel of the book, and it seems to me she probably wrote it in 2 days. It sounds like Hepburn. Smart, sassy, intelligent, and rather full of herself. I love the title. ME. I mean, that’s classic Hepburn. Her whole life revolved around what she needed and wanted, what she felt she needed to do next – she had no obligations to anyone else – no children, no husband (for the most part) … Her life was a self-sustaining organism. This is one of the reasons that her career, and its longevity, really stands alone amongst her peers. She was making good movies, where she was a LEAD, well into her senior years. Meryl Streep is on that track, but not too many other women are. It was not for Hepburn to fade into smaller character parts. She was just too damn BIG for that. And she knew it.

There is a story that early on in her life, when she had just moved to New York, and was an understudy, she was invited to listen to a talk given by Harold Clurman, who was starting to think of creating a sort of national theatre, along the lines of the Moscow Art Theatre. (His talks would eventually lead to the influential Group Theatre being formed). Clurman talked to the crowd of actors – some established, others, like Hepburn, unknown – about his plans and ideas and many people were enraptured. In Wendy Smith’s comprehensive book about the Group Theatre Real Life Drama, Smith writes:

“The ideas Clurman propounded were intoxicating, but not everyone was convinced. An oft-told story concerns a pretty young understudy who attended a few meetings with her friend Eunice Stoddard. Asked what she thought of the Group Idea, she replied, ‘This may be all right for you people, if you want it, but you see, I’m going to be a star.’ Then, as always, Katharine Hepburn knew what she wanted.”

She was not an obedient person. She took huge risks. She managed her own career. She knew when it was time to throw in the towel in Hollywood and go back to New York. And what did she do when she got back to New York? She helped along Philip Barry’s development of The Philadelphia Story which she played on Broadway. But again: she didn’t just stop there. Her boyfriend was Howard Hughes at the time, and he (Mr. Business-Man Smarty-Pants) advised her to purchase the rights to The Philadelphia Story – that way, when “they” made the movie, she’d HAVE to be in it. It would be a bargaining chip with the big-wigs in Hollywood who had labeled her “box office poison”. Nowadays, every actress has her own production company. Every actress makes it her business to search out material that she should do, and, if possible, buy the rights to it. It’s power. It’s a business decision. But actresses of Hepburn’s day and age did not behave that way. The studio system was not set up to reward independence like that. But Cary Grant set himself free, very early on, and so did Hepburn. What had been a career disaster (all of the flops, following her Oscar-winning performance) was turned into an advantage. When it came time to do Philadelphia Story, she was basically a mogul. She chose the director, she chose her co-stars (well, she didn’t get first choice – she had wanted Spencer Tracy, even though this pre-dates their relationship) … she was back on top. But she engineered it.

Her career was her own creation. Now, she had much help along the way – directors like George Cukor – who made it his business to promote her, and film her in the best light possible. She had many people in her corner. But Hepburn did not recognize obligations to anyone but herself. Later on in her career, she realized that she was “afraid of” Shakespeare. Well, this must not be allowed to stand! So she ended up doing theatrical productions of Shakespeare’s plays all over the world. Her notices weren’t all that good, but Hepburn wasn’t doing it to be congratulated. She was doing it so that she would keep learning and growing as an actress. She worked her butt off. There is an arrogance to that kind of dedication. She didn’t waste her time on concern for others. She kept her eye on the ball. That is what is required to be a star of her magnitude.

Her book is not chronological. It’s all over the place. I love it, though. I love her bullet-point type of writing, where she can boil a person down into a few words. For example, here she is on John Wayne:

From head to toe he is all of a piece. Big head. Wide blue eyes. Sandy hair. Rugged skin – lined by living and fun and character. Not by just rotting away. A nose not too big, not too small. Good teeth. A face alive with humor. Good humor I should say, and a sharp wit. Dangerous when roused. His shoulders are broad – very. His chest massive – very. When I leaned against him (which I did as often as possible, I must confess – I am reduced to such innocent pleasures), thrilling. It was like leaning against a great tree. His hands so big. Mine, which are big too, seemed to disappear. Good legs. No seat. A real man’s body.

And the base of this incredible creation. A pair of small sensitive feet. Carrying his huge frame as though it were a feather. Light of tread. Springy. Dancing. Pretty feet.

Very observing. Very aware. Listens. Concentrates. Witty slant. Ready to laugh. To be laughed at. To answer. To stick his neck out. Funny. Outrageous. Spoiled. Self-indulgent. Tough. Full of charm. Knows it. Uses it. Disregards it. With an alarming accuracy. Not much gets past him.

He was always on time. Always knew the scene. Always full of notions about what should be done. Tough on a director who had not done his homework. Considerate to his fellow actors. Very impatient with anyone who was inefficient. And did not bother to cover it up …

And with all this he has a most gentle and respectful gratitude toward people who he feels have contributed very firmly to his success. His admirers. He is meticulous in answering fan mail. Realistic in allowing the press to come on the set. Uncomplicated in his reaction to praise and admiration. Delighted to be the recipient of this or that award – reward. A simple man. None of that complicated Self-Self-Self which seems to torment myself and others who shall be nameless when they are confronted with the Prize for good perforrmance. I often wonder whether we behave so ungraciously because we really think that we should have been given a prize for every performance. And are therefore sort of sore to begin with. Well, as I began – he is a simple and decent man. Considerate to the people who rush him in a sort of wild enthusiasm. Simple in his enjoyment of his own success. Like Bogie. He really appreciates the praise heaped upon him. A wonderful childlike, naive open spirt.

As an actor, he has an extraordinary gift. A unique naturalness. Developed by movie actors who just happen to become actors. Gary Cooper had it. An unselfconsciousness. An ability to think and feel. Seeming to woo the camera. A very subtle capacity to think and express and caress the camera – the audience. With no apparent effort. A secret between them. Through the years these real movie actors seem to develop a technique similar to that of a well-trained actor from the theatre. They seem to arrive at the same point from an entirely different beginning. One must unlearn – the other learns. A total reality of performance. So that the audience does not feel that they are watching. But feel a real part of what is going on. The acting does not appear acting. Wayne had a wonderful gift of natural speed. Of arrested motion. Of going suddenly off on a new tack. Try something totally unrehearsed with him. H e takes the ball and runs and throws with a freedom and wit and gaiety which is great fun. As powerful as is his personality, so too is his acting capacity powerful. He is a very very good actor in the most highbrow sense of the word. You don’t catch him at it.

Now, excuse me, but has anyone ever described John Wayne so accurately, and with so much love? I suppose a nitpicky editor would have cleaned up that section, ironed out the choppy prose, put in some complete sentences – but so much would have been lost in the translation. To my mind, John Wayne just emerges … as a real and true man, through her words. I love how she includes “spoiled” and “self-indulgent” in her list of characteristics … because it gives it the whiff of reality. Nobody is perfect. Thank God. And I love her self-knowledge about being “sore to begin with” because she believes she should win EVERY prize. Now that is some honesty.

The whole book reads like that and it can get rather disorienting because you are waiting for, uhm, a full sentence … so I didn’t read it straight through. I would pick it up, leaf through it, read the section on Little Women or Lion in Winter, read her section on Jed Harris, or Cukor … and then put it down again. It’s still a book I go to, often.

I really thought about what excerpt I wanted to post today. Her tributes to her friends are just lovely. Howard Hughes, Laura Harding, George Cukor … her descriptions of some of the shenanigans on movie sets are terrific, and funny … but I chose to go with a real workman-like excerpt, because that is one of the things I most admire about Miss Hepburn (which I go into in more detail in the 5 for the Day piece I wrote.) There came a point in her career when it became apparent that her voice was a huge problem. It all came to a head when she was doing The Millionairess on Broadway:

Hepburn knew she needed to work on it, so she did. Like a child. She was an established movie star at that point, but her voice was bad. She would not be able to make it through the run of the show. She panicked. She worked. She changed her approach – which is another reason why I think her career was so long. What I love about her is that she never stopped working. She was never done. The woman had an ego as big as a pharaohs … but somewhere underneath that, she knew that the actual job at hand … was a job, with challenges … and often she needed to rise to the occasion. She didn’t rest on her laurels. Ever.

EXCERPT FROM Me : Stories of My Life, by Katharine Hepburn

There is seldom a way to explain what are the things that hurt one deeply. They are usually quite foolish. Some little hope or pride – like my singing, for instance – or the size of my eyes.

When I was a kid, I always hoped that someone would say, “What beautiful eyes you have.” The wolf said that to Grandma, but no one ever said it to me.

Or: “What a pretty voice. I heard you singing and …” Well, singing is another thing.

Marcia Davenport, Russell Davenport’s wife, saw the movie of The Little Minister, and she said, “Was that your voice, singing through the woods?”

“Yes – yes, Marcia, it was.” That was 1935 or ’36.

“Well, I think that you should do something about it.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m not very musical. I mean, I studied. I studied the violin once. For two years with a sweet man. Monsieur Beauchemin. I was ten or twelve, I suppose. I … I … well, I just wasn’t any good. I imagined that I would be, but I just dwindled away, gave it up. Just couldn’t do it.”

“No, I don’t mean that you should take up the violin again. I mean singing. Have you ever studied voice?”

“Oh yes – I mean talking.” I’ve struggled with that with Frances Robinson-Duff. You’ll remember that she had a system of blowing at a lighted candle to force the air to come from the diaphragm. Anyway, I felt her diaphragm – but I couldn’t make mine do it. We’d sit there blowing away. I did this for years. I’m not complaining. She gave me the greatest gift any teacher can give. She gave me her interest; she stimulated my imagination and she gave me confidence. But blow I couldn’t. And I lost my voice when I played. For years.

The worst times, The Warrior’s Husband – then about twenty years later, The Millionairess by George Bernard Shaw. Both parts where I was using a lot of shouting. It was new to me when it happened in The Warrior’s Husband, 1932. I was using a low pitch, trying to be masculine. Finally it got so bad that it was nip and tuck whether I’d begin to miss performances. Dad sent me to a throat man in Hartford, Dr. William Dwyer. He told Dad that I would never be able to have a career, that my vocal cords were covered with nodules and that I was in a serious mess.

“Just don’t tell her that,” said Dad. “Don’t say a word.” Bill Dwyer didn’t.

Well, the play was coming to an end and I was on my way to Hollywood and my nodules calmed down.

The Lake wasn’t that sort of strain. There I nearly lost my mind but not my voice. Jane Eyre – The Philadelphia Story – Without Love – As You Like It – no trouble. Then The Millionairess. I pitched that louder and wilder than I could sustain and I began to have trouble. We’d opened in London. After about six weeks or so I began to get hoarse, then worse and worse. At the end, I never talked at all offstage. Just wrote notes.

We closed to take it to America. We had the summer off. Several months. Then in the fall, two dress rehearsals with an audience. My voice immediately went. Two performances!

Lawrence Langner said, “We’ll postpone the opening.”

“Oh bunk,” I said in despair. “What’s the point? I’ll either die or I won’t die. I’ve had a whole summer off. What’s the point of kidding ourselves? Keep a-going, going. The question is, when comes ‘gone’?”

We opened. We’d been a smash in London. Our advance in New York was almost sold out for ten weeks and that was all we were playing. I struggled through that opening – half-strangled. It was difficult. The notices were O.K. Naturally, with such a limited range vocally my performance hadn’t the thrill and abandon required. No ring. So the play suffered and I certainly suffered. No zing. And it was a story about a woman of great zing.

What to do – what to do.

I went to a theatrical doctor. They are the only ones who realize that you absolutely have to go on no matter what, if you’re an actor, or die onstage. “Well, Miss Hepburn, you’re all wound up, aren’t you? Why don’t you just take a little drink and relax …”

“My God … take a drink! I can’t take a drink … my God! My mind would go. Don’t you know anyone – any teacher – someone – some help – I’ve got a whole company … I’ve got to keep going. There must be something … someone …”

“Well, there’s a man named Alfred Dixon. Why don’t you …”

By this time I was spending the weekends up at Columbia Presbyterian hospital, contemplating jumping out the window – anything – anything – “I can’t …”

“What have you got to lose?” said Bobby.

“Well, send for him.”

Bobby Helpmann, Sir Robert, was the Egyptian Doctor in The Millionairess and he was my friend. Bobby came in the door of my hospital room. With him came a man – not tall, not short – inclined to be hefty. Fat, really. Big head – eyes far apart – big face. Sitting in bed, in despair, I thought, Well, he’s not going to save my life …

“I’m Alfred Dixon …”

“Yes – so – what do you teach in a case like this? What can you do?” I was antagonistic, hopeless.

He tried to explain what he thought had caused my extreme hoarseness, and his method of voice projection. Something about dogs and panting. Good grief, I thought. Desperate, that’s what I am – I’m desperate and you’re talking about panting dogs. I want to die. I want to dive out that window and die. He’s a big, pompous ass and I just wish he’d leave me to suffer.

I could hardly bother to listen. I was defeated. “Thank you. I’ll think it over.”

He left. Bobby stayed for a bit. But as I couldn’t talk, he too left. And I sat there staring at space. Tomorrow another week would begin … agony …

I left the hospital to go back to my house. I was really low. Down – down … What to do? Monday. Six days to Sunday. Then I began to think. Don’t be a hysterical ass. Try it. I called Alfred Dixon.

“I’d like to see you. Now – if possible.”

“O.K. – 1 p.m.”

“No, I’ll come to you.” Make the effort. Go to him. His atmosphere.

I went to Thirty-sixth Street. Shabby building, I thought defensively, a bit grubby. The pupil before me left. I went in. Immediately he started with a group of exercises. The central idea of the whole thing was to get off the vagus nerve, which – when one is excited, scared, as actors are most of the time – makes one tighten up one’s neck and throat and stop the natural flow of air from the diaphragm through a relaxed passage. My tendency had apparently always been to grab with my throat. Right off, I understood what he was talking about. I’d sure Duff and that bloody candle were the same idea in essence, but at that point in life I didn’t get the message. I suppose I was too occupied with my own adorable self. Now, just about to drown, I could feel that somehow it made sense. And it relaxed me. I stayed an hour. I felt better. Now I’m sure that I didn’t actually – I mean – I wasn’t actually any better as far as my enraged vocal cords were concerned. But my mental attitude had changed. Instead of cowering, waiting for disaster, I was trying to find a path – a hole – a ray – a way out. I was going forward, not floating. I was swimming. Against the tide, but swimming.

Every day I went to him. I understood more and more. And although I did not get better, I did not get worse. And I began to realize that if I could do it this way, I would not get worse. I could control it. Not it – me. And I maintained my status quo – just. I had a positive attitude. I kept afloat. And …

But I must go back. I was telling you about Marcia Davenport and singing.

So she said, “Why don’t you study a bit? Your voice is pleasant.”

You can imagine how pleased I was at that.

What should I do?

“Well, I think that I might be able to get Sam Chotzinoff to take you as a pupil.”

He was a very important music critic and he was married to Pauline Heifetz. I used to go there once or twice a week. It was a world of which I was totally ignorant. Toscanini used to have dinner there. Toscanini! The Chotzinoff children – two boys – would peek at me as I was singing and sometimes would solemnly compliment me. “You sang well today, Miss Hepburn.” Then I would walk out of the brownstone – he lived west of the park in the Sixties – feeling musical. But of course it didn’t last, because I wasn’t – I mean, I wasn’t musical. I sang a song in Without Love, the Philip Barry play turned into the Donald Ogden Stewart movie of the same name – “Parlez-moi d’Amour” – not bad – but not good enough. Oh dear – why can’t I be a singer? I can see myself just letting go and the most glorious sounds come out. But only in my imagination. Why … why … a block – I think it – I can’t do it. Tennis the same. Painting the same. Why, oh why! Not enough talent, that’s the problem. But so hard to swallow that.

You’re just not good enough, my dear.

Who said that?

I said that: I’m your common sense.