NONFICTION - Dec. 18, 1994

NOW by Lauren Bacall (Alfred A. Knopf: $23; 214 pp.) Lauren Bacall’s tongue, one strongly suspects, is not entirely in her cheek when she writes, “It isn’t easy for me to face the fact that other people, even my friends, are much more interested in their own lives than they are in mine.” It is a revealing bit of business, much more so than intended, for this is an irritating book; inconsistent, platitudinous, gratingly self-centered. Unlike the rest of us, Bacall does not have a dog, she has a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, as she tells us over and over. She does not have friends, she has “my great, great friends” and “my most cherished friends” and “my dearest friends.” She does not have children, she has “my most darling son Sam” and Steve, “my cherished firstborn” and Leslie, “very smart, very beautiful”--”though I still can’t believe they don’t think as I do.” Bacall herself is an ideal Mom, “the most modern of mothers.” “I haven’t weighed (daughter Leslie) down with my life problems--that’s not my style,” Bacall toots on Page 61. (“Leslie’s the one I have unloaded on. . . . I apologize to you publicly,” Page 74. Oops.)

Bacall’s 65 now, 15 years older than when she wrote her first autobiography, “By Myself.” In the interim she has seen cherished friends die: John Huston, Slim Hawks, Laurence Olivier, her dog--sorry, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel. The deaths are described, interspersed among some real insights into life in the theater, on the road. Her own life goes on, though she wonders, “Will dissatisfaction--restlessness--insecurity never cease?” Then again, “No one ever said life was easy.” In candor, she confides that she is looking for a man, for more juicy roles. One hopes she finds both. She probably will. After all, she’s “persistent,” she’s “talented.” Just ask her.