by Norma Klein
Felix was there, signing autographs, too. Toward the end, when people were moving out, he waved at me and walked over. “My poor hand,” he said, holding it up limply. “It’s getting so tired.”
“Is it really?” I said. “Mine isn’t.”
He lowered his voice. “I’m just trying to sound properly world weary, like I do this all the time. Did you get any indecent proposals?”
I laughed. “No!”
He looked chagrined. “Me neither. What’s wrong? Here we are—the sex symbols of the eighties and no one seems to notice.”
“One boy wanted me to sign his hand,” I said. I looked around. “Where’s Marvin?”
Felix looked funny. “He—he didn’t want to come. I don’t know. This is all kind of rough for him, I mean, watching me—”
“I know,” I said before he even finished. “It’s the same with my boyfriend, and my sister. And even my father.”
“Isn’t it crazy?” he said. “Why don’t they trust us? They think our heads are going to be turned just because thousands of besotted people think we’re God’s gift to the universe. Isn’t that absurd?”
“It’s crazy,” I said. “I’m the same person I ever was.”
“Me too . . . listen, the weird thing is I’m actually more humble now. Before I was going around feisty, arrogant, ready to charge at everyone. Now I’ve attained inner peace.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I think that’s what’s bugging Marvin. Here he’s sitting around, mumbling his mantra and all that vegetarian shit, and I’ve attained inner peace.”
I looked right at him. “You do look peaceful.”
“I mean, let’s face it, if the Times pans me, and loves everyone else, my inner peace will undoubtedly go down the drain in one second . . . I hear the Voice likes us.”
“Daddy heard that . . . but Newsweek—”
“Look, we did a good job, right? That’s something we know, that’s fact. So who cares what a bunch of cruddy little critics say?”
“That’s what Joshua says.”
“Who’s he?”
“My boyfriend.”
“The one who used to visit you? The shaggy one?”
“Uh huh.”
“He’s cute.”
I nodded.
“He looked like a baby, though . . . how old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
“That’s a baby.”
“I’m just fourteen.”
“Yeah, but women are older. A fourteen-year-old girl is, like, thirty-five at least. Women are born knowing everything. Right from birth. They just open their big eyes and take one look around and, bingo, they know it all. Jesus, it’s discouraging.”
“I don’t know it all,” I said.
“Well, you will, kid, any minute now.”
Mom and Simon said we could either go to the party, or just go out to eat. I said I’d just as soon just go out to eat, and maybe go to the party for a little while afterward. We went to an Italian place in the East 50s that Mom likes.
Simon said he’d liked the movie. “It’s so amazing,” he said to Mom, “how Rusty looks exactly like you in those close-ups.”
Mom looked pleased. “Did you think so?”
“Exactly. It’s uncanny. Remember those high-school photos you showed me once?”
“My hair was darker,” Mom pointed out.
“But your eyebrows, the way they go up at the ends, that expression . . .”
“Well,” Mom said sadly, “at least Tat made it, even if I never did.”
Simon looked at her. “What do you mean? ‘Even if I never did’?”
“Well, I mean, this is it. She’s done something big. She hasn’t futzed away her life on commercials and soap operas.”
“Amanda,” Simon said. “Come off it.”
“It’s true.”
I was really surprised. Mom never talks like this.
“That’s complete shit,” Simon said. “You’re a terrific actress and you know it. So you didn’t get the breaks. You will, and anyone who sees you knows they’re seeing the real thing.”
Mom put her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“I think you’re a good actress, Mom,” I said.
“Do you, hon?”
“Yeah, I think you could’ve acted the part Serena Jowitt did. Don’t you, Simon?”
“Of course!” Simon said. “You could act circles around her.”
“Simon.”
“Will you listen to me? There is one fact about me which you don’t seem to appreciate. I do not throw the bull around about acting. Never.”
“Yes, but—” Mom began.
“Where do you think Rusty got all that stuff?” Simon said. “By watching you. It’s all you, filtered through her.”
I don’t know if that’s true exactly, but it seemed to make Mom feel better. But I felt kind of funny. It seems like everyone in my whole family feels basically lousy, just because I made this movie. I wish there was one person at least who was just plain happy and proud, the way they’re supposed to be.
At the party, this woman who’s married to Peter Norton, who produced the movie, came up to Mom and said to her, “Didn’t you once do some acting, Amanda?”
Simon wasn’t around. Mom said, laughing, “Oh yes . . . I still do. I’m on The Way We Are Now.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a soap,” Mom said.
“Oh yes . . . I’ve heard a great many people actually watch those,” Mrs. Norton said, in a kind of snotty way.
“Yes, a great many people actually do,” Mom said.
“And of course you take what you can get,” she went on. “It’s foolish to have too much pride. After all, one thing may lead to another!”
Mom was looking like she wanted to murder her. “What do you do?” she said, sort of aggressively.
“Oh, I’m a housewife, basically,” the woman said. “Well, four children keep you busy. But I’m also a lyricist.”
“Oh, what shows have you written for?” Mom said.
The woman blushed. “Well, no shows exactly, not yet, but . . .”
“It keeps you busy,” Mom said, smiling.
When we’d moved on, Mom whispered to me, “God, I was a bitch, wasn’t I.”
I nodded.
Mom groaned. “Oh, women like that make me want to commit some indecent act. How can they stand there in cold blood, and say ‘I’m a housewife’ with those hideous simpering smiles on their faces? Why aren’t they ashamed? Lyricist, my ass!”
Simon dropped us off in a cab. He kissed Mom and said, “See you tomorrow.”
“Right . . . thanks, Si.”
“It was fun.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Congratulations, Rust.”
“Thank you.”
In the elevator, Mom just stared dreamily at the numbers.
“Simon is the first person who’s said just plain congratulations to me,” I said, almost to myself.
“The thing with Simon,” Mom said intensely, “is that he doesn’t have one tiny, malicious, back-biting, envious bone in his whole body. Not one. He is just a kind, warm, loving person . . . and that is incredibly rare. Don’t ask me why.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He is nice.”
“He’s more than nice,” Mom said. “Lots of people are nice. He’s special.”
Chapter Ten
The Times review was really good. That was the first one I saw. It said:
In an otherwise dull holiday season, “Domestic Arrangements” comes along just in time to provide a sprightly, witty two hours of entertainment. Like “A Little Romance” and “Rich Kids,” it focuses alternately on the lives of a pair of unusually bright upper-middle-class teenagers and their somewhat confused elders. By the time the movie is over, we have come to respect and like Samantha and Warren, who manage to preserve their own sexual relationship and friendship while their parents and step-parents merge and unmerge. What sets “Domestic Arrangements” apart from the recent films of this type is the unu
sual frankness of the scenes between the young protagonists. Director Charles O’Hara, known previously for his documentary “After the Cuckoo’s Nest,” a profile of former mental patients, has focused with insight and skill on newcomers Tatiana Engelberg and Felix Propper. Ms. Engelberg is winsome and engaging as the nymphet who innocently wreaks havoc in her mother’s new marriage. Propper, more subdued, is touching and sensitive as the withdrawn, introspective Warren. What one remembers from “Domestic Arrangements” are the scenes between Samantha and Warren—playing chess after making love, quietly watching their parents go at each other before a large statusy cocktail party, horsing around on the same beach where their two parents have been trysting for the past decade. Would that the screenwriter, Joclyn Weber, had done equal justice to the lines she has placed in the mouths of the benighted adults. Serena Jowitt, looking startlingly like a young Maria Tallchief, snarls and lashes her way through a part which seems inadequately explained. As her temporary mate, Winston Lane gives the impression of sleepwalking through his part. His only moments of real life come in his brief scenes with the enchanting Ms. Engelberg, who gets through her first nude scene with a maximum of poise and grace. The pacing of “Domestic Arrangements” is uneven. The early scenes have a vitality and humor, which gradually erodes once the parents’ new marriage is on the rocks. A saving grace is the camera work of veteran Sven Lundquist. Long shots of the young couple sprawled together in and out of bed seem like scenes from a Balthus painting, evoking a gentle sensuality which contrasts effectively with the rasping relationship of the older couple.
“Domestic Arrangements” has an R rating, due to a few partially nude scenes in which Ms. Engelberg can be glimpsed through masses of long red hair. The language is discreet with the exception of two four-letter words.
I remember Charlie talking about the R rating. He was afraid that if a movie about kids had an R rating, no kids could go to see it. On the other hand, he wanted to do something different, more realistic. It was kind of strange seeing my name in print, right there in the paper. This might sound odd to say, but it suddenly made the whole thing seem real. I guess up till now, it was like the movie was just something I did for fun, but I didn’t so much think of it as something people would see and react to, not just people I know, but people I’d never even meet.
“Charlie must be delighted,” Mom said. “Are you, hon? I think that’s terrific. ‘Enchanting,’ ‘winsome.’”
“They don’t say anything about her acting,” Deel pointed out. We were all having breakfast together.
“What do you mean?” Mom said. “Enchanting and winsome are about her acting.”
“I guess,” Deel said.
“Look, first they didn’t say anything bad,” Mom said, “which they could’ve. They even liked the nude scene.”
“I wish people wouldn’t keep talking about that,” I said. “It’s like three minutes of the whole picture, and you hardly even see me.”
“I could see you,” Deel said.
“That’s our society,” Mom said. “They make a big deal out of nudity, when in France, women don’t wear tops on the beaches and no one notices or cares.”
Daddy called from Boston and said he’d seen the Times review and was really pleased. “How about the Voice?” he asked.
“It hasn’t come out yet,” Mom said. “Sweetie, you can’t imagine! The phone has been ringing nonstop since nine this morning. I feel like just yanking it out of the wall! Everybody we’ve ever known has come creeping out of the woodwork.”
“Take it off the hook,” Daddy said. “Still, it’s exciting.”
“How’s your project going, Daddy?” I asked.
“Pretty good. We may get done a day or two earlier. I think I might be back Tuesday. Can you hold the fort till then?”
“Oh sure,” Mom said. “We’re fine.”
After we’d hung up, I went over to her. “Mom?”
“Umm?” She looked distracted.
“Could Joshua, like, stay over tonight? I mean the whole night? Because it’s Christmas vacation and, well, Daddy’s not here, and . . .”
Mom looked thoughtful. “Till when?” she said.
I hadn’t thought beyond just one night. “You mean, he could stay more than one night?”
“Look, hon, frankly I don’t care if he stays every night. The whole curfew thing seems silly to me on nonschool nights . . . but we don’t want to give Lionel a heart attack.”
“I know.”
“So, why don’t you just do whatever you want, but we won’t mention it to him when he gets back. Does that sound okay?”
“Sure.” I couldn’t believe it. When I told Joshua, he couldn’t either. First of all, it will really give us a chance to try out the diaphragm. I finally got it last week, and I think I understand about how to put it in. It’s so ugly, though, and such a funny idea. I think when I’m older I’ll go on the pill. But also it’ll be nice having Joshua stay over not just for sex, but so we don’t have to worry about falling asleep and him having to get up in the middle of the night when it’s cold and windy, and go looking for a cab on Riverside. That’s quite dangerous, really.
Some of my friends from school called, having seen the review of the movie in the Times. Mom went out and got the Post and the News, too. The Post didn’t like it half so much. They said the pacing was “turgid” and said I acted like I was “in a trance.” Actually, that’s what Charlie wanted me to do. He said Samantha was a very dreamy person and I should look like I was thinking private, mysterious thoughts all the time. I didn’t know how to do that exactly, so I would just stare straight ahead, and he’d say, “Great, I love it.” The News gave it three stars. They called it a “sparkling farce with a myriad of witty, delightful scenes.” It’s odd how they thought Serena Jowitt was great, the best in the movie. They didn’t like Felix that much. They said he “hardly seemed a fitting companion or lover for the dazzlingly lovely Ms. Engelberg.” I hope he doesn’t mind that.
I decided to clean up my room, partly in honor of the movie, but mostly in honor of Joshua sleeping over. I weeded through all my papers from last year and threw out about four waste-basketfuls of stuff. I went through my clothes and found three blouses and two pairs of jeans that I never wear. I gave them to Mom; she gives stuff that I don’t like anymore to this family called the Spears who have six daughters and not that much money. They’re always writing thank-you notes to me. Then I cleared absolutely everything off my desk, every single thing. I like completely clean surfaces, but it’s hard when you have to keep doing papers for school. While I was sorting through stuff, I found the photos Joshua took of me naked last spring. God, I’d forgotten all about that. That was how we . . . well, not met exactly, but how we knew we liked each other.
What happened was one afternoon Joshua came over, thinking Deel would be there. They were in the orchestra together—he plays the clarinet, and she plays the violin. Only she wasn’t. I was there. I’d just washed my hair. Thinking it would be Deel or Mom, I answered the door just in my Japanese kimono, with my hair up in a turban. Joshua looked a little embarrassed when he saw me, but then he came in and sat in the living room while I dried my hair. At one point he asked if I’d mind if he took some photos of me drying my hair. He said he was doing a series for some project for this photography class he was taking at night. He said he had some new kind of color film he wanted to try out. I don’t mind when people take my photo, so I just kept on drying my hair and he kept kind of circling around me, taking photos. Eventually, my hair got dry, so we went into the kitchen and had some cocoa. Then we went into my room and started to talk. I still had my kimono on, and while we were talking, I noticed Joshua kept looking at me in this sort of funny, intense way. I did this really bold thing; it’s hard to imagine I even did it. I said, “I guess I better get dressed,” and I went over to my closet and took my robe off and stood there with my back to him without anything on except my underpants, which I’d had on under my robe. Then I pu
t on a shirt and a pair of jeans. When I turned around, Joshua was still sitting there with his camera, kind of staring at me with this totally glazed expression. Finally he said, “Rusty, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but I wondered if vou’d mind if I took some photos of you just . . . naked. I have, like, three or four shots left on this roll.”
“Okay,” I said. It was weird. I mean, I’d never acted like that with a boy before. I just took my clothes off and lay down on the bed and he took three or four photos of me. It only took a second. Then I put my clothes back on again and we just sat there looking at each other. Nothing happened that day at all except I think we both knew we liked each other. While he was waiting for the elevator, Joshua just stood at the door and finally blurted out, “You’re beautiful,” and dashed into the elevator. I guess he’s shy with girls. That’s what he says. He doesn’t seem shy to me anymore, but maybe that’s because we know each other.
When he came over later in the afternoon, I showed him the photos.
He looked at them. “Hey, I could sell these to Playboy now,” he said.
“Joshua!”
“They’re not bad, actually.”
“I thought they were art photos.”
“They are.” He hugged me. “So, star, how’s it going?”
“Joshua, please . . . I’m not a star.”
“You’re twinkling.”
“I’m not . . . Don’t make fun of me.”
He put his arm around me. “I’m not, Rust . . . I feel proud of you.”
“Do you? I thought you thought the Times critic was dumb.”
“Well . . . Look, they only have a column or two. It’s not exactly in-depth film criticism.”
