“I can’t see you, Evelyn.” “Yes, you can.” “What do you want us to do?” she said. “Ruin each other all over again?”

Born Evelyn Elena Herrera in 1938, the daughter of Cuban immigrants, Hugo grew up in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City. By 1955, she had made her way to Hollywood, gone blond, and been rechristened Evelyn Hugo.

She laughed at me. “I know that’s probably not something most actresses mean in this town, but I don’t want to be like most actresses. I really like you. I like watching you on-screen. I like how the moment you show up in a scene, I can’t look at anything else.”

“You don’t want the story?” Evelyn asks, challenging me. “If you don’t want it, don’t take it. Let my story die with me. That is just fine.”

After retiring from acting, Hugo donated a great deal of time and money to organizations such as battered women shelters, LGBTQ+ communities, and cancer research.

And that is this: Evelyn Hugo was bisexual and spent the majority of her life madly in love with fellow actress Celia St. James.

The movie starts, and I marvel at how dynamic Evelyn is on-screen, how it is impossible to look at anything but her when she’s there.

There’s Evelyn Hugo for you. Somewhere in the middle.

Evelyn was never going to let the thing that made her be the thing to destroy her. She was never going to let anything, even a part of her body, have that sort of power. Evelyn is going to die when she wants to. And she wants to die now.

Every night after shooting, Celia and I would stay late in my trailer and rehearse our scenes. Celia was Method. She tried to “become” her character. That wasn’t really my speed. But she did teach me how to find moments of emotional truth in false circumstances.

“Everything you have you went out and got for yourself.” Celia leaned her glass into mine and clinked. “To you,” she said. “For being absolutely unstoppable.”

“You make people think of undressing you just by showing up in a room fully clothed.” I felt flushed hearing her talk about me like that. Having her talk about the way men saw me. I’d never heard a woman talk about me that way before.

It wasn’t until those evenings with Celia, the two of us sharing a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of wine for dinner, that I even started paying attention to the new stuff.

“Because they are just husbands. I am Evelyn Hugo. And anyway, I think once people know the truth, they will be much more interested in my wife.”

“I’ve either not been able to afford it or have been so rich someone would do it for me. Never anywhere in between.” “I love that about you,” Celia said as she took a full glass and handed it to me.

Connor was five. It was hard to explain to her where Uncle John went. It was even harder to explain to her why her father was so heartbroken. For weeks, Harry could barely get out of bed. When he did, it was to drink bourbon. He was rarely sober, always somber, and often unkind.

Ten years before, I would have been far too scared to say anything more. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I had to show her that I still loved her. That I always would. “I know she’s watching right now. And I just hope she knows how important she is to me.”

“How did you learn all the underhanded, sneaky stuff you know?” Celia asked. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said coyly.

The next morning, I woke up as an Oscar winner with a precious six-year-old eating room service in my bed.

“The first time I saw Father and Daughter, do you know what I thought?” she said. “I thought you were the most gorgeous woman who had ever been created and we should all stop trying.” She inhaled half the contents of her glass. “No, you did not,” I said. “Yes, I did.”