At a crowded Hollywood gathering in the mid-1940s, Peter Lorre stood quietly near the bar, glass in hand, visibly anxious and distant. Humphrey Bogart, noticing his old friend’s withdrawn demeanor, made his way over and whispered, “You may be small, but you’ve got the biggest heart in this place.” That one sentence, recalled later in Charlotte Chandler’s book "Nobody’s Perfect", was not meant to be dramatic. It was simply Bogart being Bogart, tough on the outside, fiercely loyal at his core.
Their friendship had begun years earlier, likely around the time they both appeared in "The Maltese Falcon" (1941). While their screen dynamic leaned toward suspicion and tension, behind the camera, they shared drinks, jokes, and an unspoken understanding. Lorre, often cast as eccentric or sinister, carried emotional fragility with him, while Bogart, beneath his image as a sharp-tongued rebel, had an instinct for protecting those he cared about.
Hollywood could be brutal to a man like Peter Lorre. His thick accent, his unusual looks, and his refusal to conform made him a character actor at best in the studio system’s eyes. Off-screen, he battled depression and addiction, often sinking into moods that made others uncomfortable. But Bogart never stepped away. Friends recalled that when Lorre would go silent or distant at parties, Bogart would not leave him alone. He would pull up a chair, light a cigarette, and say, “Let’s not talk. Let’s just be.”
Their bond extended beyond camaraderie. It was rooted in something deeper. During the making of "Casablanca" (1942), Bogart was under immense pressure as he transitioned into romantic leading man status, while Lorre, who had only a brief part in the film, was navigating a wave of personal turmoil. Still, they found time to meet late at night, usually in Bogart’s dressing room or at his home, sharing drinks and quiet conversation.
Lauren Bacall once noted in an interview that Bogart was selective about who he let into his inner circle. Lorre was one of the few who stayed, even as others came and went. Bacall remembered evenings where Lorre sat cross-legged on the floor of their living room, holding a drink he rarely finished, while Bogart prodded him with lines like, “Say something morbid, Peter. But make it funny.”
As Lorre’s addiction grew worse in the late 1940s, offers from major studios started drying up. His body, once thin but energetic, grew weaker, and his performances became inconsistent. Still, Bogart kept inviting him to dinner, even when Lorre would cancel last minute or show up late and exhausted. Bogart’s house, already a haven for fellow outsiders like John Huston and Frank Sinatra, remained open to Lorre, no explanations needed.
There were no public declarations of their friendship. Bogart never gave interviews saying he was helping Peter Lorre. But his actions said enough. One afternoon in 1953, during a particularly low period for Lorre, Bogart reportedly called him three times just to check in. When someone asked why he bothered, he answered, “He’s my friend. That’s the whole reason.”
Lorre outlived Bogart by only a few years. When Bogart died in 1957, Lorre was seen at the funeral standing off to the side, staring at the ground, hands in pockets. A journalist noted that he did not speak to many people that day, and left without making a sound. But those who knew them said it made sense. Lorre had already said his goodbyes, years earlier, in a hundred quiet ways. Seven years later, in 1964, Peter Lorre died at the age of 59.
Bogart’s friendship was not loud or dramatic. It was made of small gestures, silent presence, and stubborn loyalty. And for a man like Peter Lorre, that kind of friendship was life-saving.
