Wednesday was a pretty rotten day. There was the loss of Ted Kennedy, then word came that Dominick Dunne, too, had passed. And that shattered my heart.
I did not personally know Mr. Dunne, but I had long admired him. He first became known to me after the murder of his daughter. Then, his articles in Vanity Fair, which were why I bought the magazine. Mr. Dunne didn’t just write, he spoke to you. As if you were a confidante.
I had written a role for Mr. Dunne at the end of Black Coffee. Of course, he would have played himself. It was a small part, but it was the cherry on the sundae. A touch of the sublime, and more than self-serving. I wanted to have lunch with Mr. Dunne. Or just a cup of tea. I wanted to sit with him and listen. Silently hope he would share with me a secret, elaborate on a story he’s already told. But I would have been happy simply to shake his hand and tell him, “I’m such a fan.”
We didn’t have the chance to send Mr. Dunne the script. There’s no way of knowing if he would have been interested, if he would have said yes, if he would have been well enough to do the shoot. But now, no matter what, the film will no longer be perfect, it will no longer be whole…at least to me.
My sincerest condolences go to his family and our mutual friends. Such a loss. Such a life. Goodbye, Mr. Dunne. xo