Kate Remembered Read Free Page B

never had any great interest in meeting movie stars. Disappointment seemed inevitable. But as has long been the case with many—from truck drivers to presidents—Katharine Hepburn was always the exception. From the first time I had watched her old movies on television and in revival houses and her new ones as they appeared in theaters, I wanted to meet her. By the time I had graduated from college, I had seen all of her signature films—not such an easy task in those pre-video days.
    Most fans suffer the problem of visiting their own best hopes upon their idols; but to her legions of fans around the world and across the century, Katharine Hepburn somehow seemed different from other movie stars, one whose natural beauty was probably just as striking even without Hollywood lights and makeup, one whose dialogue probably crackled with humor and intelligence even without others writing for her, one whose presence doubtless outshone any postures and gestures a director might have taught her. The greatest movie stars, the few genuine icons of the cinema, become so because we believe they are sharing actual pieces of themselves on the screen, a delusion fans nurse to heighten the fantasy. With Hepburn, however, such qualities were always assumed more than imagined.
    Working on my Perkins book at home in Los Angeles, I had heard that Katharine Hepburn lived perpetually in transit but that the best way to reach her was through her California address, where her life was at its most calm. I presumed Katharine Hepburn still received hundreds of letters a week with dozens of requests for interviews; but somehow I figured mine would appeal to her because the subject would be so unexpected. My father, a television and motion-picture writer and producer, obtained the Los Angeles address for me, and I sent a brief but earnest typed letter to 9191 St. Ives Drive, on the Beverly Hills border, just a few blocks above the Sunset Strip. Months passed, during which time I interviewed dozens of witnesses far more appropriate to my work—such writers as James Jones, Alan Paton, Taylor Caldwell, Marcia Davenport, Erskine Caldwell, and Martha Gellhorn. I mentally wrote off the letter I had written Hepburn.
    Then one day an envelope arrived, addressed in strong, jagged handwriting. Inside I found my letter to Katharine Hepburn, now filled on both sides of the page with the flamboyant script that had adorned the envelope. This handwritten response apologized for taking so long to get back to me but explained that her mail was in a constant state of flux; furthermore, she added, she really did not see any reason for us to meet as she had never met Max Perkins. She went on to write that she used to look out her windows and see the beautiful Perkins daughters, and that Louise Perkins was “a lovely-looking creature—reaching for something on her own which she never could attain, I felt—living in the shadow of a remarkable man.” As for Perkins himself, she added, she used to spy on him walking “up and down Forty-ninth Street either conversing or in happy silence with my driver . . . who was known as the ‘Mayor of Forty-ninth Street.’ I always hoped that someday he would speak to me,” she noted, in conclusion. But he never did. The letter ended abruptly with neither complimentary close nor signature—merely “K.H.”
    I wrote back to thank her and to suggest that just those few outpourings indicated that a good interview might unlock more memories. She never responded. Frankly, she had already delivered more than I expected; and so I felt I had no business imposing any further. I finished my biography six years later and mailed a copy to her, again hearing nothing in reply.
    The next year, in the spring of 1979, I embarked on my second book, a biography of Samuel Goldwyn. He was the “Great Independent” of the Hollywood producers, a man who helped establish four motion-picture companies