The Girl: A Life in the Shadow of Roman Polanski

by Samantha Geimer

  Really, he had no one.

  But then, the extraordinary trajectory of success. He eventually got into acting as a teenager, and made his first movie—Knife in the Water—in Poland in 1962. It was a deeply uncomfortable film about the sexual tension between a bored married couple and a hitchhiker they pick up, and was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film that year. He moved to the United States and went on to direct some of the darkest, most extraordinary movies of our time: Rosemary’s Baby, Repulsion, Macbeth, and, a few years before we met, the movie that was to be nominated for eleven Academy Awards, Chinatown. But even his post-Holocaust life as a celebrated director was marred by the most unspeakable of tragedies: in 1969 his pregnant wife, Sharon Tate—allegedly the first woman he had a real, lasting, fulfilling relationship with—was brutally murdered in their home, along with four others, in one of the infamous Charles Manson killings.

  When I met him in February 1977, I knew nothing of this. I had seen Chinatown and didn’t like it. I thought it was both brutal and boring. (Of course, if I had known he’d directed and starred in my favorite movie at the time, The Fearless Vampire Killers, I would have been starry-eyed.) And my mother and Bob, despite being in the business, weren’t exactly film historians. They knew about the Tate murders, so that an air of tragedy hung over him always. They also knew he was powerful and famous and could do things for all of us. In other words, they were pretty much like every other unsophisticated aspiring actor in Hollywood.

  · · ·

  Polanski sat down in the living room and explained what he wanted to do. A French edition of Vogue magazine was looking to do a story on the differences between American girls and French girls—exactly why is a little vague, but it seemed perfectly plausible at the time—and he needed to find the right American girls. He showed my mother and Bob a beautiful spread he’d done with Nastassja Kinski in the Seychelles for a summer issue of Vogue Paris. The theme was “pirates” and it involved the beach, swords, buried treasure, and Kinski as the captured princess in some kind of medieval golden dress. Whether or not he was having a sexual relationship with Kinski then, when she was still fourteen, is a matter open to debate, but he did shortly thereafter. What isn’t debatable is that she was so exquisite in the photos she took your breath away. She also seemed so exotic, so sultry, so knowingly sexual. In a few years Richard Avedon would make the famous image of her wrapped in a boa constrictor, and I always imagine the boa was annoyed at being upstaged.

  Anyway, there were these extraordinary images of an international beauty. And then there was me, a thirteen-year-old kid in jeans and sneakers, barely developed, wearing a bird.

  I was by all accounts, including my own, a very pleasant but unexceptional-looking girl. My eyes suggested no particular mystery—they were bright, but that was all. I had a roundish face, a slightly pug nose, lips that were cherry red without the benefit of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. My hair was short, and I wasn’t quite pulling off the feathered Valley Girl cut. My voice was surprisingly husky—not Cathy Moriarty sexy, just husky. No one could ever say I slinked into a room. I sort of galumphed.

  Looking back on it, I still marvel that he didn’t turn on his heel and walk out the door. Was he really looking for prepubescent girls for a photo shoot, or was the photo shoot a good excuse? After all, Roman Polanski didn’t have to work hard to get beautiful women. But maybe beauty wasn’t always the point. Maybe for a man who had lived through what no one should ever have to live through, and survived, maybe extreme youth was some sort of life force. And maybe he felt he needed it.

  Of course, at that moment, I was thinking nothing like this. Mostly I was thinking: Ew, there’s this guy who’s like my size and sort of looks like a ferret. But he’s super-powerful and he wants to photograph me. Me! And look how happy Mom and Bob look. They were sitting upright, leaning in to him a little, listening happily.

  As he showed these photos of jaw-dropping beauties in Vogue—girls on beaches, in fields, dressed in backless evening gowns—and explained his American teenager versus French teenager storyline, I don’t know how I stopped myself from laughing out loud. I really didn’t have any sense that he was checking me out, either, although certainly he must have been making some sort of calculation. This was boring. I wanted out. I introduced Roman to my cockatiel, which failed to charm, and then exited to my room, my record player, and the over-the-top theatricality of Aerosmith:

  Leaving the things that are real behind

  Leaving the things that you love from mind

  · · ·

  A few days later Polanski returned, clutching a small black camera. My mom gently suggested she should come along on the shoot. There was a long pause. No, Roman said, her presence might make me uncomfortable and unable to relax in front of the camera. She didn’t fight him; there were already stories about Brooke Shields’s crazy controlling stage mother, and she certainly didn’t want to be that.

  Roman and I drove in silence to the top of our one-block street, Flanco Road, then walked up the hill where on many evenings locals would walk their dogs, bike, or lie on the patchy grass. At night, you could check out the lights in the Valley, Topanga Canyon, and Mulholland Drive; look up and you could search for the Milky Way through the San Fernando haze.

  It was late afternoon, a couple of hours after school let out. Warm, not too breezy, with a couple of hours of light ahead of us. This was the test shoot. From this he could determine if I was the right girl for the French magazine.

  We stopped at a spot on the hill not fully hidden by the tall grass and he started taking my picture. I had brought two tops with me, and after one roll of film, he asked me to change into my other shirt. I turned my back to change, and was surprised that I still heard the click of the shutter. Why was he still taking pictures? Wasn’t it obvious I wasn’t ready? As I was changing he asked me to turn toward him, and he began giving me directions, quietly. Smile, don’t smile, look at me, bite your lip, look up, turn to your left, look back at me. He was utterly focused, not on me but on getting the shot right. There was no chitchat. No playfulness. But that was okay.

  “This is not working,” he said. “I’m just not seeing it.”

  I tried again. I was used to hearing nothing but praise from photographers—either because I was just so awesome (my thirteen-year-old brain said) or because the photographers were being paid to take head shots and wanted to make me happy. Although he wasn’t exactly mad at me, I knew I wasn’t quite nailing it. I could tell he was a little exasperated when I tried to look sexy, biting my lip. The more “off” I was, the more I tried. I thought I could read him: Give me what I want, or someone else will.

  We walked up to the top of the hill. When he asked me to take my top off altogether, I felt I had to rise to the challenge. Sure, my breasts were so small I could still wear undershirts, and sure my mother would disapprove, but this was my break. If I eventually got into the magazine—well, I’d have clothes on. Besides, I was a professional. Sure, no problem. I’ll take off my top.

  “Just like that,” he said. “Turn.” He snapped away. Then I got my blouse back on as quickly as I could. I didn’t think much about it. It was all a waste of time. These pictures weren’t going to be used. Vogue didn’t have naked girls in it, like Playboy. Of course, this was for France. Maybe it’s different in France.

  The next thing I knew, I was topless again. “Put your hands on your hips now,” he said. He looked a little happier. I was getting cold. A dirt biker zipped by, and Roman looked from the biker to me. “Is that bothering you?” he asked. “No,” I said. I was a professional. Besides, breasts are beautiful; that’s what The Joy of Sex said, and I thought so. It’s just that I didn’t have them, not really. But haven’t other girls my age posed like this? Brooke Shields, or maybe Jodie Foster, she was in that Taxi Driver movie and, oh, I don’t know, plenty of others.

  Finally we were done, and headed back to the house, the sun setting behind us. The pollution above the Valley streaked the s
ky in sherbet orange and pink. It was cold, and I wished I’d brought a sweater. Had this gone well? I tried to convince myself it had. That’s what I’d tell my mom. It was fine. Totally fine.

  And it must have gone well enough, because although he didn’t say anything to me, Roman called my mom and arranged for a second session. I was going to get my shot. Whatever I did up on that hill, it might put me on the map. My family would be stoked.

  CHAPTER 4

  It just happened. Have you ever heard yourself say that? How often is it true? When we do something shameful, is it more often intent or opportunity? I’ve asked myself that question over the years about Roman Polanski. Was I something that “just happened”?

  On March 10, my ticket to stardom showed up again. He was dressed casually but neatly in tan slacks and a crisp pinstriped shirt with the wide collars that were the fashion of the times. He wore ankle boots with heels, and they gave his walk a certain swagger. Or maybe that’s just how he walked. He was neither brusque nor ingratiating; just somewhat thoughtful and abstracted. His cologne was a little too strong. He wanted to shoot me for the magazine! Sure, the last time was super-uncomfortable, but that was the price of fame. I may have been thirteen, but I wasn’t a moron. Didn’t I realize that everyone had to make some sacrifices for their art? And if my sacrifice was that I took off my shirt, well, how hard was that?

  Everyone was excited for me, but even though I’d said nothing about the last photo shoot, my mother sensed my discomfort. I suggested to my mom that my friend Terri go with me. Terri, who was hanging out at my house that day, was my closest friend at the time, a sweet girl from a religiously strict Catholic family, so different from mine. She seemed like a good companion for this.

  But Roman was in a rush. He said, “Let’s go. All the light is going to go down. Hurry up. Get your clothes.” So I did, with him helping me select them. Jeans, a white blouse, a rugby shirt, a plain blue dress. We all headed out, and as we walked to his car, Terri asked how long the shoot would be, because she needed to be home by a certain hour, and Polanski warned her that it might take a while, so maybe she shouldn’t come. She shrugged and headed home on her bike. I wanted her to come with us, mostly because I was uncomfortable with this adult and thought it would be more fun to have a friend, not because I was scared or anxious. My mother thought the three of us had gone together.

  Roman negotiated the rolling bends on Mulholland Drive in a steel-gray rented Mercedes, on our way to . . . someone’s house. I didn’t know where, but it didn’t matter. I sat beside him in the front passenger seat, glimpses of the canyon rushing by. It was a lovely day for my big break.

  First, we stopped at the home of a brunette Englishwoman with feline features and perfect full lips—Jacqueline Bisset, I was told. I didn’t know who she was, but she was very nice and offered me a glass of wine. I said no. Later, she said she was appalled she had offered liquor to a minor—that she hadn’t known my real age. If you look at the photos from the time that seems implausible, but then again, maybe she just assumed Roman wouldn’t be palling around with a thirteen-year-old. Even I thought it was a little odd that someone who didn’t know me offered me wine, but at that time adults were so eager to be seen as “cool” to kids that they often treated them as small adults. I’d been offered beer or wine at my parents’ friends’ houses before. He took a few photos of me at Jacqueline’s house—pretty, feminine, maybe just the tiniest bit risqué—and continued to worry about losing the light, so he said we would go to his friend Jack Nicholson’s place. Back in the car, we talked a little.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

  I looked out the window. “Yes,” I said.

  That was a lie. I had had a boyfriend, sort of. He had just broken up with me. Steve was my first serious boyfriend; we had dated for a few months. He didn’t smoke or drink because he was really into karate, and wanted to be disciplined. He drove a Camaro, which impressed everyone at my school. I was crazy about him, but he dumped me because I was thirteen and he was seventeen, and he didn’t think he should be fooling around with someone that young. We did fool around, though.

  “Have you ever had sex?”

  That was an odd question. I replied yes. It was true, and I did not want him to think of me as a child.

  “How many times?”

  “Twice,” I said. That too was a lie. There had been one time. It hadn’t been particularly memorable; for me, at thirteen, it had been more like—well, one of those things you check off your to-do list. But I didn’t want to appear naïve. If you tell someone you’ve had sex only once, you sound prudish and ridiculous. Twice was so much better.

  Roman stopped asking questions.

  The conversation turned to other things, and I relaxed and forgot all about it. We continued through Mulholland Canyon, discussing photographs. I told him about a Playboy cover I’d seen. My ex-boyfriend Steve had showed it to me. It was a girl in a high-cut wetsuit, unzipped very low, coming out of the surf in front of a beautiful sunset. See, if he knew I had seen Playboy before, he’d understand that I was quite mature. I’m not bothered by these things. I’m practically French!

  The road we were on seemed familiar. I’d taken some acting classes up here, and for fun, Mom and I liked to drive around here on a Sunday. So pretty above the Valley: you get glimpses of the mountains, the houses where the stars live. Mom liked to point out the stars’ houses on our drives: Hey, Loni Anderson lives there! Marlon Brando’s over there! This was my first time actually going into the house of a movie star, though. Not that I cared much about Jack Nicholson. Yeah, he was a good actor (I’d seen him in Chinatown), but I wished we were going to the house of Dom DeLuise, say, or Roddy McDowall. The house of The Planet of the Apes guy! Now that would be cool.

  But this was good, too.

  The house wasn’t huge or fancy, but it had this big redwood deck with a pool in the back, and a view of the mountains. An olive-skinned woman met us at the door with two dogs, and she and Roman chatted for a bit. Her name was Helen, and she was the housekeeper. Jack Nicholson wasn’t around, which I thought wasn’t a big deal. I glanced around the living room. There was lots of wood—a guy definitely lived here—and the shelves were crowded with photos and mementos.

  Roman and Helen kept chatting while I walked around, trying to pretend I was interested in the house. Finally Roman turned to me. “Are you thirsty?” he asked, as we all walk into the kitchen.

  He opens Nicholson’s fridge, and it’s jammed with juices and sodas and wines. He pulls out a champagne bottle and asks me, “Should I open it?”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  “Is it all right?” he asks the housekeeper, and she pulls out three glasses.

  They have a few sips and chat a little more as Roman begins to fiddle with his camera. Helen says she’s going out. I’m glad Roman finally wants to get started. He says he wants to catch the last of the light, so we go outside. The sun is just setting over the Hollywood Hills, and I am trying my best to follow his directions. But he looks irritated. Is it me? Is it the light? Well, part of it must be the light, because he doesn’t just give up altogether. We go back into the living room.

  Roman hands me a glass of champagne as I stand by this antique brass lamp, willing myself to be beautiful. The champagne tastes nice. He suggests I take my blouse off. Ummm, okay. I don’t need to take off my bra, because I am not wearing one. The truth is, I don’t need one. I really wish I had boobs, so I have kept buying myself training bras, hoping the bras will train them to grow. But no such luck yet. Oh well, better not to think of that now. I take another sip of champagne. Roman seems more pleased. Hey, look at me! I’m really modeling now. I’ve seen so many off-the-shoulder shots in magazines where the girl seems to be naked, but you don’t see anything. That’s what he’s doing, I bet. I must have good shoulders.

  “Should I drink the champagne or just pretend?”

  “Yes, drink it. Hold the glass to your lips. Now lower it. Sip.
Look at me. Look over there. Sip a little.”

  I drink. He refills my glass. I drink more. He keeps refilling, but I try to pace myself. I also try to follow his directions and do a good job. And then we are done with the photos at that spot and he tells me to change my clothes.

  I put on the long blue dress with the long sleeves. He walks away to put in a new roll of film, I think. It’s not comfortable being in front of a doctor half naked, never mind a photographer, so when he doesn’t stay to watch me change, I can’t help but feel better. Still, I try not to think anything of it. This is my job, I remind myself. I am a professional, and this is what professionals do.

  Next we go into the kitchen. He refills my glass. I’m perched on the kitchen counter, licking an ice cube, my tongue sticking out, and he’s clicking away. I’m aware I have a little buzz going. If I don’t think about it too hard, it’s kind of fun, this playacting.