“Terry’s interested in you playing Savannah,” he told me when he sent the Exhale script over to me to read. In addition to writing the book, Terry was writing the script along with Ron Bass. It was Terry’s first stab at a screenplay, but she’s very vocal and vibrant. She thought I would be perfect for Savannah.
I was already a fan of Terry McMillan. I had read Mama, her first book, Disappearing Acts, her second, and then Waiting to Exhale on the subway. As I read Exhale, I could hear the different women’s voices as they tried to navigate through the miasma of their relationships. That’s what my girlfriends and I had been doing—talking, crying and encouraging each other.
“Oh, he’s treating you like that? You deserve better than that.”
“Leave him. You can come stay here.” That was before I learned the lesson to just shut up and listen. “Uh-huh. Whaat? Really? You don’t say.” No more of that “Leave him alone, that ain’t right,” and then you turn around and she’s gone back to try to make the relationship work one more time.
I knew Exhale had four female roles—coveted roles. Here was a balanced women’s ensemble. In fact, it might have been the first time in history when four substantial women’s roles were available in one movie. Roots, the 1977 television miniseries, may have been the previous opportunity before that. I was excited about the opportunity, but when I heard that Terry envisioned me as Savannah, I said, “Oh, no. I’ve read the book. I’d rather play Bernadine.”
I liked the way Bernadine fought back when she was devastated by her husband’s infidelity and the ending of their relationship. She fought back in such a gutsy, outrageous, extravagant, ridiculous way. Why would you sell a sports car for a dollar? I wondered. Of course, she knew it would mess him up. But to my mind doing that was just so outrageous! Burning the car and all his belongings—the scene that seems to stand out in everyone else’s mind—didn’t stand out to me when I read the book or the script. But to sell everything for a dollar—that’s what stuck out to me; maybe because that was something I would never do. But, boy, did it seem like fun! I had never heard of or seen anything like it on-screen—a woman that bold and brash and different. Growing up, of course, I’d heard tell of aunties who, mad at their boyfriends or husbands, slashed, cut or ripped up all their clothes. I’d think, Gosh! He won’t have any clothes to wear. And now he’s butt naked, going somewhere embarrassed. But I, Angela, would never have had the nerve, would never have thought to do anything like that in my personal life. I’m just too nice, too fair. I could imagine doing it, just like I could imagine hitting someone, though I would never do that, either. So to have an outlet for those imaginings—oh, it was delicious and freeing! To tear up a closet. To burn a car. To have to say the lines and play the part but also have the opportunity to improvise. That’s what made it so exciting! I think Whitney Houston and I came on board at about the same time, which, I assume, is why I got the role I wanted.
One evening in May 1994, before I headed to Arizona, where Exhale was filmed, I hung out at Catalina’s, an L.A. jazz club, with some friends from drama school. After the set, we stood out front for a while, laughing, talking and reminiscing. Courtney Vance was in the group. Out of the blue he asked me, “Hey, you wanna go out?”
“Oh, okay. Yeah.”
I was hoping his invitation was strictly on the friendship tip. People were always asking you if you wanted to hang out. The idea of hanging easy was cool. “It’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you in a while. What have you been doing?” When you hang out with that kind of energy, the feeling can be familiar and warm, gentle and easy. Nothing feels pressured. You just want to spend additional time with good people in this place, Los Angeles, where everything is so spread out and everyone’s always in their car. Since Courtney and I had gone to the same school, were part of the August Wilson family, knew all the same people and ran into each other occasionally, the idea of spending time was fine. But I definitely wasn’t interested in having a “date.” It wasn’t just that I had this history of relationships that went down blind alleys, nowhere, ran into brick walls, but Courtney had dated Ahren, who I considered a friend. In my mind that made him OFF LIMITS! And I had dated Charles, who’d played with Courtney in the movie version of Piano Lesson. Our circles were too close. The idea of dating felt very uncomfortable. He couldn’t possibly mean a date-date, could he? Oh, Lord, I thought. I hope he doesn’t like me. We went out two days later. I don’t remember where or what we did. The only thing I remember is trying to make sure it wasn’t a date-date. Other than that, I don’t remember a thing. I think I blocked it out.
The next day I was off—whoosh!—to film this wonderful movie. I was off to portray Bernadine!
As soon as I arrived in Phoenix, I encountered apartment drama. The apartment I had rented for $3,500 a month smelled like dog. I already thought I was paying too much, but there hadn’t been much available when I looked. The other girls—Lela Rochon and Loretta Devine—had found an apartment complex I liked better. I was still dealing and living in the smelly apartment when I received an unexpected floral delivery, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers—“Thank you for the date” flowers. From Courtney. The last person I wanted to get flowers from. I figured that if I didn’t respond, maybe he would get the message and go away. But a few days later the phone rang.
“Hey, Angela, it’s Courtney.”
“Hey, Courtney. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I just wanted to say hello and make sure you got the flowers.”
“Yes, I got them. They were nice.” Then I changed the subject as quickly as possible and ran down my apartment drama. That seemed to work without being rude. I did like him—just as a friend. The call ended quickly and he didn’t call me back. Months later when I had returned to Los Angeles, I was certain I’d made the right decision. I kept running into Ahren. One time I was parked on the street and she walked right in front of my car. Out of all the people in this big city. Another time I ran into her in the supermarket. I couldn’t imagine saying, “Hey, Ahren, great to see you! Courtney and I are dating.” I took all these sightings as a sign—an omen, really—that he and I weren’t supposed to date. After being together so long, I couldn’t imagine them not getting back together. So I said, “Hey, Ahren, I’m having a birthday party. Why don’t you tell Courtney to bring you.” And he did.
Filming Exhale was a lot of fun. First off, I fell in love with the director, Forest Whitaker, who’s also an actor. You know him from playing roles like Charlie Parker in Bird, Ghost Dog in Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai and Marcus Clay in Deacons for Defense. Forest was gentle with all of us. We could just sit back and talk about the character or the relationship and how we saw it or wanted to play it. He was open to anything you wanted to try. I thought he was wonderful. I also got to work with some really great co-stars—Whitney, Loretta and Lela. And some really good guys came on board—people like Wesley Snipes, who I was happy to hear joined the cast, since we had arrived in New York at around the same time; as well as guys like Michael Beach, Gregory Hines and Wendell Pierce. Forest was trying to bring the best actors on board.
The environment on the set was so warm and loving—it was perfect! So comfortable that Forest let us eat snacks and watch the dailies together. We had a great time laughing at our mistakes, our little flubs or whatever. We were just silly! And he was very sensitive. I guess it was a little rude of us to laugh at our coworkers. You’re going to make mistakes; that’s why you do scenes a couple of times. But I guess once was enough of our laughing at each other; he banned us all from the screening room and wouldn’t let us see the dailies anymore.
One of my most memorable experiences was the scene where Bernadine tore up the closet. I threw myself into the scene—just a little past the point of technique, unfortunately; I remember feeling a little out of control, banging into something, cutting my hand on a coat hanger, drawing blood. But I just kept going. I was into it, feeling the endorphins, the hormones, imagining, feeling enraged.
When I torched the car, I felt like the most dramatic, empowered and hurt woman in the world. I also loved Bernadine’s relationship with Wesley Snipes’s character. Wesley’s character was in love with his wife, but she was at home dying of cancer. He slept in the same bed with Bernadine—they were intimate—but they did not have sex. I liked the way our characters didn’t cross any lines.
I also liked Wesley as a person and a friend. When I observed, “He’s single and doing well. I’m single and doing well. How come people like us can’t seem to get together and enjoy each other’s company?” I couldn’t find a brother—well, at least an actor brother. It seemed like all of them liked girls who weren’t actors. I wondered, If I were a successful man, wouldn’t I want a successful wife? That would make them a power couple, right? I thought that was a good thing.
Wesley play-flirted a little bit. “We should get together.”
“All right, but I don’t go for no shit!” I laughed. I’m still waiting for him to call.
But Wesley aside, in real life I wondered if successful men just weren’t interested in successful women, if they found successful women intimidating or what? I didn’t consider myself intimidating. Yet my career was growing nicely. Waiting to Exhale was a box-office success. In 1995 after it was released, it grossed over $65 million at the box office, which was a lot more money than some people ever envisioned a movie starring four black women would earn. My name recognition increased to another level. After doing Strange Days, Vampire and Exhale back to back and having each come within two weeks of the other, even I felt a little overexposed. But my bank account was growing quite nicely. My accountant told me I could afford to buy the house I’d always dreamed of owning.
House hunting was the slightest bit anticlimactic; I had always thought I’d buy my first home with my husband. Taxwise I couldn’t wait. “The husband ain’t here,” I told myself. “You’re going to have to do it alone to keep Uncle Sam out of your wallet. I’m going to have to buy another house with a husband.” It wasn’t the worst problem to have. I thought about it and concluded that maybe a successful woman can intimidate—but only an intimidateable man! I knew I deserved better.
Chapter 12
What God Brings
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I immediately liked it. It was holistic, and there was a lot of sunshine. Many of my buddies were already there. I moved into a gorgeous old apartment building in Los Feliz, one of the older, settled areas up near the famous Hollywood Hills sign. I connected with my agent, settled into my rhythm of walking Bottom and began to figure out what the touchstones in my life would be. I loved the weather as well as the people; even the customer-service reps who set up the phone and TV service seemed nicer. The rhythm in New York was faster and that was reflected in people’s speech patterns. People in New York spat words at you: “Yeah. Whatever. Hold on. You talkin’ to me?” In L.A. they said things like, “How may I help you? You’re welcome. Thank you.” At first I was taken aback. “What do you mean, how can you help me?” I thought. What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so nice? After living in New York for so long, I had gotten accustomed to being mistreated.
That’s not to say that people in L.A. are nicer than people in New York. In fact, I have had more instances in which people have helped me when I was in need in New York than in L.A. Suffice to say, the two cities are very different.
For a year after my move, I continued therapy with Dr. K. once a week over the phone at 5:00 a.m. PST to anchor me. The lure of pornography was fading and I was getting healthier, but I knew I wasn’t ready for another relationship—after what I’d done to myself and Ahren. I was clear; I didn’t want to hurt another woman. I couldn’t do that again. Still, I missed their companionship. Dr. K. and I started to talk about how I could have women as friends. To keep things clean, I would have to practice being honest and letting women know where I was emotionally, and what I wanted and didn’t want. I wasn’t going to get romantically involved just because a woman liked me. But if I could be open and honest, I wouldn’t have to back away if they wanted the relationship to deepen, and leave them hurt.
I started interacting socially again. Unlike in New York where you see people at auditions, you see people at the theater, you see them in the subway—you see and run into people every day—in Los Angeles you have to make a point of socializing. Especially if you’re single, it’s hard to meet folks. Everything is so spread out. Everyone lives in their little house or apartment and travels around in their car. You have to drive thirty miles here and thirty miles there, then at the end of the day you have to drive thirty miles home—in L.A. traffic, which is a nightmare. People aren’t down for all of that. It’s not like they’re in a subway or cab. So people gather in people’s homes. You meet folks at house parties. I reconnected with friends. I got into the L.A./N.Y. acting scene out there.
Actors, I learned, would also see each other at the premieres of movies. Premieres become a way and a reason to get together. The movie is supposed to start at seven-thirty but, especially with a group of black actors, might not get going until eight-fifteen, because everyone is trying to catch up with each other.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“How have you been?”
“What’s going on?”
“What are you working on?”
We’d share leads and opportunities, celebrate each other’s successes, catch up on our love lives, talk about who was getting married or divorced, who’d had a baby, was sick, who had died. New actors are passing out cards and picture résumés. Everyone’s pressing the flesh—that’s what they do. That’s what you gotta do to break into the L.A. scene. Lots of times they have to dim the lights a couple of times to get people to go sit down. After the movie is over you look up and people are gone. They have to drive the thirty miles home. Unlike in New York, where people would stay out late, L.A. closes down at ten or ten-thirty. Nobody hangs around. So at house parties and movie openings I would see the same people over and over—Angela Bassett, Blair Underwood, Don Cheadle, Michael Boatman and a bunch of other folks. We stayed up on each other’s lives. In some ways they became like my extended family.
Through this casual social network, I slowly started interacting with women. Over several years I met a few sweet, sweet women. For the first time in my life I could talk about my feelings with them. I could have an emotional conversation. “How do you feel?” “Well, I’m feeling this and that.” I was emotionally available. Yet I could also go to a movie or go to a concert and think she was nice and leave it at that. We didn’t have to be intimate, although maybe we knew it could go that way. I learned that I could be honest and it was okay. When one woman liked me more than I liked her, I was up front: “I don’t feel the same way about you that you feel about me.”
“I know, Courtney. It’s okay,” she told me.
I used my good judgment. “No, it’s not okay. We can’t do this, because you’re just going to end up hurt and mad at me. So let’s just stop.”
We had a nice long talk about it and parted as friends. Of course, she told her girlfriend, who then called me up, asking, “How could you do this to her?”
“What did I do?”
“You’ve hurt her, she’s destroyed!”
“I had a conversation with her. She and I talked. How did you get in it?”
“She’s my girlfriend, and—”
“Thank you very much for sharing your opinion. I’m going to hang up now.”
I learned during this time that no matter how hard you try, there is always going to be hurt in relationships. All I could do was try and be as honest as I could.
I was finally becoming the kind, gentle, yet balanced soul that matched the person I imagined myself to be. For the first time in my life I was experiencing some sort of peace. Life was beautiful; work was great; I had female companionship. Everything was going along swimmingly. I even started feeling optimistic about being in a relationship again one day. But I didn’t feel like I had to r
ush. I was comfortable taking things as they came. In the meantime, I had learned how to be patient. I’d tell myself, “I’ll be tickled to see who God brings me.”
In the meantime, I also had to learn how to communicate clearly with Bottom. Bottom was getting old—he was eleven years old now—seventy-seven in “dog years.” His hips were starting to give him trouble. He reached a point where he couldn’t get up off the gorgeous hardwood floors in my apartment, so I had to move to a small house with a yard and carpeting. Of course, I could not afford a house by myself in Los Angeles, so I needed to get a roommate. I found one in Tony Tolbert. Tony and I threw a housewarming party. I invited all my friends, and Tony, who is a lawyer, invited his. Because we were expecting a good number of people and the house was carpeted, we planned to ask folks to take off their shoes. We were in no way prepared for the hundred and twenty-five people who showed up. It was a great party and a lot of fun, but the thing I remember most is that there were a hundred and twenty-five people at our house and we had no place to put their shoes!
I had been in Los Angeles for a year when, in January 1994, there was a major earthquake. Everything shook and a lot of people’s houses were wrecked. Tony and I were standing in doorways when the phone rang and I picked it up.
“The last time there was an earthquake, you and Bottom and I were together in bed and I reached out on one side and you were there, and I reached out on the other and Bottom was there. I did that again when this earthquake happened. You weren’t there. It let me know it was time to call you. I’m just calling to check on you. Are you okay?” My feet floated off the ground. It was Ahren!
Two years had passed since Ahren had told me that she would “never speak to me again in life.” I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d never hear from her. Now that I was listening to her voice, I didn’t know what to say.
Friends: A Love Story Page 23
