Friends: A Love Story

by Angela Bassett

  Early in the award season I won a Golden Globe from the international film correspondents for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy. That was just sweet! In my acceptance speech I got to say, “Tina, I thank you, wherever you are in the world!” Afterward, Dick Clark interviewed me backstage. That was surreal; I’d grown up watching him on American Bandstand.

  “Angela, congratulations! How does it feel?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clark…”—I remember he was so tickled that I referred to him as “Mr. Clark.” I guess it was like a breath of fresh air. But I didn’t know how I could just meet someone older than me and say, “Well, Dick…”—maybe after years and years. While he and I were talking, Pierce Brosnan walked up to me, kissed me on the hand, congratulated me and told me how good my acting was. Shortly thereafter he became the face of James Bond for about the next decade. But that didn’t change him; he’s still a gentleman—always the same.

  After I won the Golden Globe, I started to think, Maybe I can win an Oscar, too. I didn’t know how Oscar campaigning went—I have a bit more insight today, years after the fact—but at the time I didn’t know what was involved and no one was telling me. I wasn’t into all the campaigning. I was just into doing good work. I thought, “My performance ought to speak for itself.” I didn’t know that for an Oscar, some people would run an ad in a trade publication. At some point I started receiving Variety magazine and the Hollywood Reporter and noticed that the studios were placing ads: Nominate so and so; remember such and such a performance. I also didn’t realize how significant it is that the Golden Globes has two categories: a category for musicals and comedies and a separate category for drama. The Globes had categorized What’s Love as a musical. In the Oscars there’s only drama.

  The night before the Oscar nominations were announced, I hung out with Wren and his wife, Ann, at their home. Wren had grown up in Los Angeles. Acting was his whole thing. His grandfather, Troy Brown, had been in the movies with folks like Hattie McDaniel, the first black woman to win an Academy Award (for Best Supporting Actress for her performance as Mammy in Gone With the Wind). Ann and the children went to sleep, but he and I stayed up all night waiting for the announcements, which are made at 5:00 a.m. Pacific time, 8:00 a.m. out East. I remember they announced Best Supporting Actor first. Wren and I almost woke up the whole house when they called Laurence’s name. And when they got to Best Actress and announced my name, “OH, MY GOSH!” Wren was so excited for me—he’s such a good friend! I just couldn’t believe it. All I could think of was how far I’d come in my life. The recognition was overwhelming and humbling. Then the phone started ringing—I mean it just rings and rings! This person and that person is calling to congratulate you. They’re happy for you and ecstatic and you just can’t believe it’s happening. I had never even dreamt of winning an Oscar. All the recognition made me feel like I’d climbed Mount Everest or something.

  So I jumped onto this train and took the ride all the way to Oscarville! I wanted to experience what this whole Oscar thing was about. I was just overwhelmed with emotion. And there were so many decisions: people want to dress you, you’ve got to decide what you want to look like, what dress and jewelry you’re going to wear, what makeup, you’ve gotta figure out who in the press you’re going to talk to. You have to think about the people you want to thank if you win. It’s so much but it’s great fun! All the activity goes on for about a month, then you fall over dead! Along the way I got to meet all sorts of people I admired: Rosa Parks, James Brown, Sidney Poitier, Diahann Carroll. I had the opportunity to attend the Oscar luncheon, held shortly before the ceremony, where you are awarded a certificate to commemorate your nomination, and all the nominees take a picture together alongside an oversized fabrication of the Oscar. Of course, I’d never been at the luncheon before. I remember running a little late. The publicist and I got out of the car—and, oh, the paparazzi! Until very recently they had never been interested in me. Now I had to walk through a phalanx of photographers. They all want you to stop and take a picture in front of them.

  “Angela, Angela, right here! Look over here!”

  “Oh, okay, okay!”

  Click, click, click.

  I took as many pictures as I thought I could without being too late—I mean, they can take over fifty pictures of you in less than a minute. But after a certain point I started saying, “I’m late, I have to get in there! Okay, I gotta go now….” Right before I went inside, I remember walking in front of this one photographer—a woman with short black hair who was missing her front teeth. She always seems to be standing up front on the red carpet. I stopped for a moment for her to photograph me, but apparently it wasn’t long enough. “BOO! BOO!” she shouted. I mean, she booed me at the top of her lungs. I was green to all that stuff—and Southern, all accommodating, in terms of my upbringing. I wasn’t cold like some people are. I was the type of person who cared what others thought of me. Seeing her face as she booed me like that was like looking at the devil! Her derision pierced me like an arrow. It was an ugly sight, and ugly piece of humanity. I started crying. Later the National Enquirer ran a picture of me wiping my tears on my little hot pink Donna Karan jacket, the best piece of clothing I had.

  While I was trying to blot my eyes, I walked through the door into the hotel. I immediately bumped into Anthony Hopkins and started crying again. I admired Anthony Hopkins for all of his roles—for portraying Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs and Jack Lewis in Shadowlands, for instance—but I had no idea I felt strongly enough about him that I would start crying. I was just “Wow!”—he’d just popped right off the movie screen and now was standing right next to me. The whole thing was just emotional—I was a raw emotional wreck. I stood behind Anthony while we posed for the official paparazzi—the photographers who were allowed on the inside. I guess the people outside were trying to get whatever pictures they could to support their livelihood. For all I know, the people who knew better may have rushed by them so they could get inside. But on the inside, everyone walked graciously in front of the photographers and we were treated well.

  The Oscar luncheon was great—it was a lot of fun! At one point Stephen Spielberg walked up to me and asked, “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here acting all along,” I told him. “I was aware of you, you just weren’t aware of me.” We laughed. It was a very exciting time. For the first time people could associate the face and the names of both Laurence and me. Having people associate your face with your name is every actor’s dream.

  I invited my mother to be my date to the Academy Awards themselves. I thought it was only appropriate that I bring my mom. She raised me. That’s who put values and work ethic in me. She was the person who had always told me, “Don’t settle for average,” and “Work hard and be nice!” I wanted to make my mother happy. I wanted her to be proud of me. When we were seated, I sat there on the aisle wearing my big, poofy Escada dress—feeling all princessy. Her seat was right next to Anthony Hopkins, which was nice since he and I now had a little history. I got to say, “Mr. Hopkins, this is my mom, Betty Bassett. Mom, this is Anthony Hopkins!” She was thrilled and impressed with him. Wren escorted my sister to the ceremony and they sat elsewhere in the auditorium.

  When the presenters started reading the names for Best Actress, the category for which I’d been nominated, I remember Mom squeezing my hand. She was squeezing it so tight she almost cut off my circulation.

  “And the Oscar goes to…”

  And in that moment before they called the name, it was so exciting. It was like time sped up and slowed down at the same time. Although I definitely wanted to win, I had the thought in my mind that whoever’s name they called, whatever happened, I knew I would be okay with it. I felt Mom keep squeezin’ my hand. Then I could see the presenter form the first letter of the winner’s name. “Holly Hunter!” And it’s like, “Ahh!” and you exhale. And you know that with that television camera focused on you, you want to be strong and be a lady. And you sa
w the movie and she was very good in it. But part of you can’t believe it because you know it could have gone either way. And your mother is still squeezing your hand.

  Yes, Holly Hunter won the Oscar that year. But in the years from then until now, if I haven’t heard, “You should have won the Oscar,” a thousand times, I haven’t heard it at all. For a long time every day of the year, I must have heard it twice a day. All these years later I still hear it often. Consistently. But it was as it was for whatever reason—whether Holly’s fabulous performance as a mute woman in The Piano or the Academy not being ready to give an Oscar to a black woman. I’ll never know. I would have loved to win that Oscar, but as I said, I focus more on the work. There are some awards that are important to me, but by and large they are more important to others.

  Chapter 10

  What Else Can Happen Now?

  Back in New York there were two missions I had to accomplish: one was to get back into the show; the other was to find a therapist. I called Stockard right away. Regardless of the other things I had to do, the show would go on, and I was worried about what it was going to be like getting onstage after being away for over a month. I knew I’d have to start all over again. But I figured that once I had the show back in rhythm, I could figure out what the heck I was going to do in the other portions of my life.

  I threw myself into my work. From the outside things looked good. Six Degrees was the talk of New York. Professionally I was on a roll—Six Degrees, The Hunt for Red October, My Children! My Africa! Fences, Hamburger Hill—everything looked wonderful! I was making a decent amount of money, and Ahren and I moved into a nicer apartment. I would eventually earn a Tony nomination for Best Actor for my performance in Six Degrees. But personally, I was in crisis mode; on the inside, I was dying. Eight times a week I was playing a character who was lost and trying to find himself, trying to connect with somebody, a black man trying to fit into a white family. At the same time I had lost my father to an incredible tragedy, was feeling adrift and going to work and relating to people in exclusive, predominately white, environments. My character, Paul, was struggling; I was struggling. We were both on the edge. I was barely eating. Every night onstage, I was just “gutting it out.” The irony of the role I was playing ripped me apart. I’d go home and just focus on the play. I became obsessed. “Let me read my notebook.” I kept working the play over and over, whenever I had an opportunity. I knew I had to get up onstage that night and I wasn’t sure how I’d do it. I started to lie more and more to prop up my facade. It became hard to find a place in my mind where there wasn’t a lie. The biggest lie was the one I was telling myself: that I was fit to be onstage.

  True to her incredible heart and spirit, Ahren was there for me every step of the way. But our relationship was getting more tenuous. I was rarely at home, and when I was, I was focused on the play. I became addicted to 1-900 numbers as a way to alleviate my pain. Pornography is like a drug. It is a sickness and I was in the thick of it. I didn’t make time for her. I paid no attention to her or what was going on with us. I didn’t know anything about therapists, but Ahren was kind enough to let me see hers. As an actor I had become comfortable with the idea of talking about my emotions. I now knew it was okay to cry and that where the heat of the emotion was, that’s where I’d find relief. But I’d never done therapy before. What was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to talk first? How did it work? The first time I went I just held my head in my hands the whole time. The therapist asked, “Do you have a headache?” In my head I responded, “DO I HAVE A HEADACHE! YOU KNOW I DON’T HAVE A HEADACHE! I JUST DON’T KNOW HOW TO BEGIN!” I was upset that she wasn’t being helpful.

  Initially, I didn’t have a good feeling about Ahren’s therapist. I knew she was a professional, so I didn’t worry that she would judge me. But I needed help and I didn’t like the way she sat back and seemed to be waiting for me to do something—I wasn’t sure what. Next I met with a black woman. She was the same way. She sat back and waited. I knew I was numb; I knew I was a mess; I knew I needed to find someone who would proactively facilitate my healing process. So I kept getting recommendations from people. I knew I’d eventually identify someone I was comfortable with.

  On Wednesdays, between the matinee and the evening show, I started getting massages. One of my cast members told me she had a great Swedish-massage person named Guinila. The first time I laid down on Guinila’s table, she asked, “Is there anything I should know about before I begin?”

  “My father committed suicide about a month and a half ago,” I said. Then I broke down in tears. Guinila worked on my body for about two hours. We talked about a lot of things and I told her that I was looking for a great therapist. At the end of the session she said, “I think I know the perfect person for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Dr. Margaret Kornfeld.”

  I decided to make an appointment.

  The night before I met her I had a very vivid dream. I was wearing cowboy boots and there were big decorative pillows on the ground to lie on. I remember they felt very comfortable. Later that day when I went to Dr. Kornfeld’s office, I knew she was the right person for me as soon as I shook her hand. Her spirit was very gentle.

  “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.

  There were two sides to her office: the side with the desk and chair seemed a little more formal; the other side was more relaxed. It had a couch with pillows on it. The pattern on the pillows was the same pattern as the pillows in my dream! I knew I was home. By now I understood that therapy involved talking, so I just started pouring everything out, talking a mile a minute.

  “Courtney, you don’t have to tell me everything at once.”

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly how this works.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll take it slowly. A step at a time.”

  I felt relieved—as though I finally had time and space to devote to just me. I felt excited about having someone to talk to who would understand and help me. Once we got going I found therapy so freeing I wished I had started ten years earlier. There was a lot of stuff I really needed to deal with. In one session she asked me to tell her about my childhood.

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “You don’t remember your childhood?”

  “No, but I used to write down my dreams. I have a book of dreams at home I could show you.”

  “Bring it in.”

  I brought it in but it was really too spotty to help in any meaningful way, so I began to look for dream books and workshops. I found a workshop at the New School that looked promising: Breakthrough Dreaming by Gail Delaney. I immediately alerted the stage manager of the show that I would be “sick” in about a month so I could attend the day-long class. It was there that I found the tools to begin what became a life-altering journey into my dreams. Ms. Delaney taught that people, locations and settings of dreams are very important; however, our dreams are encoded in a way that is unique to us. Therefore, no one can interpret our dreams for us—a blue sky means something totally different to me than it does to anyone else—we just need to figure out what our subconscious is uniquely telling us. One way to do that, Ms. Delaney explained, is to train our minds to remember the last thing we were thinking upon awakening.

  Eager to try out my new techniques, I got some paper, a pen and a flashlight and put them by my bedside. Each time I woke up I wrote down the first thing that came to my mind. The first three days I tried I got nothing. But on the third night, dreams began coming like a flood! I began by having a couple of dreams a night and ended up with seven or eight a night! Of course, Dr. K. was totally overwhelmed when I brought in fifty dreams that first week. She encouraged me to identify the one dream that had the most emotional heat—intensity—and bring it in so we could discuss it.

  I threw myself into recording my dreams each night. I rushed to go to bed; I felt like I was on a mission! During the night I would awaken several times, turn on my flashlight and write down all my dreams, givin
g them catchy titles based on where I felt the heat—names like “Runnin’ in the Attic,” “Ketchup,” “Peanut Butter Soup.” I had dreams about Bottom; dreams about attics and basements; dreams about offenses and defenses in football and basketball; dreams where I was running from something; dreams about race—black and white.

  In time Dr. K. began to see patterns.

  “Do you know that whenever Bottom’s in your dream, that’s you?”

  “Bottom’s me?”

  “Yes. In real life you and Bottom are so intertwined that you know what’s going on with each other. You know when he’s upset, when he isn’t feeling well. You can touch his nose, look in his eyes, look at whether his tail is up or down and know what’s going on, right?”

  “Right…”

  “So whatever’s happening with Bottom in your dream is actually what’s going on with you in your life. How Bottom’s feeling in the dream is actually how you’re feeling in life.”

  To someone who wasn’t very in touch with his feelings and was just learning how to deal with them, that was a powerful revelation. In time our work with my dreams eventually began to give me a tremendous amount of insight into how I was doing. But my healing took time. The unfolding was slow. The process occurred over three years.

  By late spring of 1991, I started getting Six Degrees’s rhythm down; it took up residence in my bones. Rather than having to start my preparation early in the day and arrive three hours early to do a walk-through in my dressing room, I could come in at seven-thirty, get hyped—I had a ritual similar to that of a professional athlete—and be ready to walk onstage at eight. I knew how to give the part exactly enough energy to play it well without wearing myself out. I gave no more, no less. Still, in addition to the physical rigors, to play such an emotional role in the middle of what I was going through was tremendously taxing.