Throughout my pregnancy, I also carefully repeated our parenting mantra to my husband: “Fifty/fifty, Tommyyyy, rememberrrrr, fiftyyyy/fiftyyyyyyyy.” I said it after I had to drop out of that play because I was no longer credible as a virginal spinster. I chanted it in our car on the way to our coed baby shower, and especially during my twenty-two hour, virtually pain-medication-free labor. “Puff, puff, pant pant, argh, puff puff, pant pant, don’t forget, fifty motherfucking fifty!!”
But right after our baby Wilson was born, my concerns didn’t center around Tommy’s reneging. I feared I was going to be the worst mother on the planet. Even though I’d felt deeply connected with Wilson in utero, in reality I didn’t have that instantaneous bond I expected. I got how daunting the responsibility was; this tiny human’s life was literally in my hands. But I mostly just felt anxious to lose the seventy pounds I’d gained and get back to work. Jesus Christ, new mothers shouldn’t feel that way, right?
Apparently fathers got a cultural pass. You always heard men say, “Nah, I didn’t start to feel a connection to our baby until he was out of diapers.” Or “Nope, didn’t really feel close until they were old enough to play sports with me.” And nobody batted an eye. The phrase “paternal instinct” didn’t even exist in the English language! But moms had to be gobsmacked right out of the gate.
For the first few weeks, I kept having nightmares that I’d forget about Wilson, accidentally leaving him in the car if I went to a café or to my spin class. Also, it was pretty uneventful—I mean, all he did was sleep, eat, fart, shit, sleep, eat, fart, and then . . . um . . . oh yeah, shit. Even though others swore he grinned—Look! There it is! See? He’s smiling! Awwww! That’s definitely a smile!—I always knew it was just gas. Because that’s what my face often looked like when I farted.
Stuck at home alone, I became frantic that show business at large had forgotten all about me. My agents would soon stop returning my calls, casting people would start asking them for a Christine Lahti “type.” If I ever worked again, I’d only get to play the “mom” parts, which were not only brain-paralyzingly boring, but always number fourteen on the call sheet. In spite of all my careful strategizing about how I would “have it all,” it became clear that would only be possible if, like my character on Chicago Hope said, “I gave up eating, sleeping, and bathing.”
In those early days, while Wilson lay next to me in bed, I feared I’d roll on top of him and squash him into a newborn pancake. I’d lie awake staring at him, in awe of the miracle that was his cheek, the poetry of his pillow lips. I watched as his doll hands instinctively knew to grasp my finger and hold on for dear life, the way a robin clings to its branch. If he cried, the comfort that my breast gave him seemed overwhelmingly powerful. Trying to match his breathing as it slowed and sped up again, I wanted to know what he dreamed . . . if he dreamed. I’d finally fall asleep, only to wake up next to a tiny stranger.
While nursing him in those early weeks, I’d try to make eye contact with him. It was like trying to connect with a squirrel. Days passed as I searched for him. I wished I could somehow reach inside and pull him out. But Wilson would only hold my gaze for a few seconds, curious but mostly disinterested. Instead he’d make those rubbery, goofy grimaces, reminiscent of a pug’s. And just like when seeing a pug’s face, I’d laugh out loud but would always be somewhat alarmed.
Then, after about six weeks, we were sitting on his blue-gray rocking chair one late afternoon, the one that rolled more than rocked, like riding ocean waves. I had just finished feeding him and tried peering into his eyes as usual. He started to cry, and I saw he had a full diaper. I took him to his changing table to clean him up, and as he lay there, like he’d been underwater the whole time, the person who was my son surfaced, looked into my eyes, and smiled . . . through me.
Or maybe I’d been the one underwater this whole time. Perhaps I’d forgotten that loving someone and feeling connected to them takes a lot of hard work; that the more you put in, the more you get out.
My breath caught in my throat. My eyes filled with tears. I’d never felt so close to anyone in my life. Suddenly, as if I’d known him forever, I understood volumes about him. My heart exploded in ways I never knew possible, and I was a goner.
However, still committed to breaking all conventional rules, I felt determined to follow through on our parenting pact. Tommy, true to his word, shared all the responsibilities. He got as blissfully involved and connected as I was. We took turns doing everything: bathing, changing diapers, dressing, playing, rocking, snuggling, strolling, and burping. He’d even get up most nights for the dreaded 4:00 a.m. feeding. When one of us worked long hours, the other would simply pick up the slack. We spent two years all together in New York City, where our experiment in parity seemed a revolutionary, resounding success.
Then, between shows of The Heidi Chronicles on a late Saturday afternoon, this happened.
“you stole my baby! why did you take him from me? why? whyyyyy?” I screamed on the phone to my husband, sounding a lot like Nancy Kerrigan right after Tonya Harding had her knees whacked. Tommy had taken Wilson on a two-week trip to Los Angeles. I was in my musty dressing room at the Bernie Jacobs Theatre in NYC, surrounded by pictures of our now two-year-old son Scotch-taped to the mirrors.
“Wait . . . what?” Tommy asked, incredulously. “You’ve repeatedly said that we needed to—”
“I know what I said. But I can’t stand this! Bring him back now! How dare you take him from me?” I sobbed.
I’d been supportive of this trip; in fact, I’d encouraged it. By this point, I hadn’t been separated from Willie for more than a few hours at a time. But after doing eight grueling shows a week for several months, I thought this would be an opportunity to really put our arrangement to practice. Tommy would take Wilson with him to LA and be his primary parent for a while, while I got to focus on my work and catch up on much-needed rest. But after only a few hours, before they’d even arrived in California, I found that my husband, in taking my baby away from me, had severed one of my arms.
Tommy called as soon as the plane landed. I begged him to bring Wilson back as soon as possible. At once our future became crystal clear. Not only would I have to take Wilson on location with me wherever I might be working, Tommy could never take him anywhere without me, except for an overnight camping trip. Maybe. I felt doubtful, in that moment, that I would ever be capable of separating from him. Even if he got married someday, I’d have to stay in a little bedroom decorated in tea-stained floral prints and vanilla-scented candles in the basement of his house.
Still heaving, I went on, “Okay, I know I’ve been insistent about this, but I’m going to need to amend our deal. I’m going to have to be the primary parent. It might actually have to be fifty-five/forty-five, or maybe even sometimes sixty/forty or sixty-one/thirty-nine, depending on the particular circumstances.”
Tommy paused briefly before taking a deep breath. He then reassured me that he would indeed add that rider to our contract.
I hung up, then looked at my soaked eyes in the mirrors and wondered, as my husband surely did, if perhaps I had lost my mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen! When the fuck had my son become one of my organs? When had his every disappointment, his every struggle, his every joy, become mine? I sank down into my creaky chair and focused on a picture of Wilson. It was a recent Polaroid of him taken at Serendipity’s in New York City, spoon in hand, about to dive into a hot-fudge sundae (with walnuts) that was bigger than his head. His dimples looked like craters in his flushed round cheeks, and I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.
Tommy didn’t kidnap my son by taking him to LA. Not by a long shot. I was the one who’d already been captured and held hostage, by a stealthy, blue-eyed, towheaded baby. One day when life interrupted my plans.
12
What I Wish I’d Known About Love Scenes
I wish there’d been a class for actors called How to Do a Love Scene. They’re not easy. They can be awkwa
rd and artificial, but somehow you need to make them seem relaxed and real. And you have to do them in front of several cameras, bright lights, and with a whole lot of strangers pretending not to watch. I had to learn the hard way.
Once you are on set and it’s already too late, you start asking yourself all kinds of questions: How much do I really go for it? Should I discuss boundaries? What body parts, if any, are off-limits? While working, I’ve let guys know they could grope breasts and butt, but I’ve never been allowed to touch an actor’s dick. My sex scenes have always been pretty tame; mostly just the foreplay or aftermath, with fake heavy breathing and several strategically placed sheets.
Over the years, I’m sure there’ve been complaints about my uptight making-out skills. In the early days, I imagined my costars comparing notes. “Yuck! I’ve had better kisses from my basset hound!” “Yeah, kissing her was like smooching an elbow.” Especially if I felt nervous, which was true 99.9 percent of the time. Unless I’d had a glass of chardonnay before. Which was also true 99.9 percent of the time.
I’ve worked with several actors who also had no clue. The most egregious “stage kiss” for me was early in my career on Broadway, when a guy insisted on cramming his massive tongue down my throat, no matter how hard I tried to block it. This tongue felt like a slab of raw beef that could feed a family of six.
I wanted to politely suggest a simple closed-mouth kiss. But I knew this guy had a fragile ego. So I practiced how the conversation might go . . .
“Ahh . . . Norman, can we talk about this kiss we have to do in act two?”
“What do you mean, have to do?” I pictured his thick unibrow rising to the top of his forehead.
“Ha ha! I mean, get to do. . . . It’s just . . . could you, uh . . . do ya think we could maybe keep our mouths closed?”
“Wow, really? I’m getting notes on my kissing? Are you saying I’m not good at it?” He’d most likely spit a little as he said this, and I’d have to take a few steps back, making it look like I was just shifting my weight.
“No, you’re awesome! It’s just . . . well . . . do you think you could maybe not put your tongue in my mouth?”
“What? Jeez, I’m just like in the moment and we’re supposed to be playing two people who really dig each other, right?”
“No, I know. . . . It’s just your tongue goes like really deep in. I mean, maybe it’s because my mouth is so small or something, but . . .”
“Are you grossed out by my tongue, is that it?” he’d ask, his brow now in a furrowed, furry knot.
“No! Stop! You have an incredible tongue, it’s one of the greatest tongues I’ve ever worked with. It’s just . . . ugh, excuse me . . .” And then I would have to go throw up.
Once I tried pursing my lips so tightly, they looked like the anus on a Chihuahua. But without fail, Norman burrowed through. I nearly gagged. But I needed to somehow stay in character, remember my lines, and keep acting instead. As the run went on, he felt completely entitled to explore all the caverns of my mouth with his “mouth penis.” (That’s exactly what it was like. He should have been put into actor’s prison for Statutory Mouth Rape by a Tongue!)
But the real problem lay with me. I never had that imagined conversation with my mouth assaulter. Because even though I had mighty feminist strength in my head, apparently my voice wasn’t quite up to the task. At twenty-seven, a proverbial late bloomer, I remained unable to completely shed the thin skin of a second-class citizen.
Of course, now, if anything like that ever happened, I’d have had no problem asking him to kindly keep his tongue to himself. If he didn’t, I might be inclined to bite it off and spit the slimy fucker down his throat.
I went on to have some great professional kisses, kisses with respect and restraint. If any actress tells you that she hates those kind of love scenes, she’s lying. “They’re so hard!” she might whine. What is so hard about it? Please! What other profession pays you to cheat on your husband all in a day’s work? I worked with some well-mannered, hot men on Chicago Hope and got to make out with several of them: Peter Berg, Mark Harmon, Adam Arkin. Those actors were like a trio of porn-movie “fluffers.” By the time I got off work after a day that entailed love scenes with them, I felt ready to pounce into the sack with my husband.
Years before I met Tommy, when I was filming . . . And Justice for All, Al Pacino fluffed for, well, Al Pacino, with whom I went on to have a long affair. Of course, as the quintessential professional, I wouldn’t consider dating him until after we wrapped the film. The flirtation and chemistry we developed throughout the shoot always had to remain strictly “in character.” I felt any potential personal relationship could never interfere with our movie one. But after we wrapped, all bets were off.
Then I worked with one of the greatest fluffers of all time, Bradley Cooper, in Jack and Bobby, before he was Bradley Cooper. After lying on a dining room table in a slip with a nearly naked Bradley all afternoon, I came home primed and pumped for hot sex with my husband, who was the happy beneficiary.
I know today many young actresses feel empowered by appearing nude. But for me it was the opposite. Back then, I thought refusing nudity was the only way to be regarded as a serious actress. Have I mentioned that respect was a priority for me?
During the filming of Swing Shift, my no-nudity rule made a sex scene with Kurt Russell especially challenging. The director wanted to shoot from the angle of my back, so he asked me to take off my bra. I agreed to do it, but only after he swore the camera wasn’t seeing any breast whatsoever. However, I got so into the fake lovemaking with Russell (not hard to do) that I paid no attention to the positions of cameras. When I watched the released movie, my director remained true to his word—not a smidgen of even side boob was visible. But years later, when I saw the “director’s cut,” which got a lot of play (even though this was way before the days of YouTube), there they appeared—a full frontal of my breasts, in all their naked glory. I thought at first that maybe the director had used a body double, since I had been so insistent about the no-exposed-breast thing. But then I looked more closely, and sure enough, they belonged to me. I felt betrayed but also secretly relieved that they looked so perky. By that point I was relieved that anything about me still looked perky.
But did that somehow make it okay? If they looked droopy, would I have demanded he remove those shots? Even though it was just a “director’s cut,” in retrospect, he should have asked for my permission to use the footage. By the time I saw it, though, I’d been nominated for an Oscar for my performance. Maybe I felt I’d garnered enough respect to withstand a little objectification.
I’ve also done a couple of love scenes directed by . . . my husband. One of them, in Crazy from the Heart, depicted my character and her lover in a postcoital embrace on the flatbed of his pick-up truck. Our skin glowed in the light of the fifty votive candles that surrounded us. The romantic Mexican music playing on the radio also helped us get into the mood. Normally a director who does multiple takes, Tommy seemed abruptly satisfied with the very first take this time—“All right, good, we got that . . . let’s move on!” Poor Ruben Blades could barely make eye contact with me as he instinctively patted my back and disengaged from our stiff embrace.
But what to do when you have to be madly in love with someone in a scene and you can’t stand him? It happens. Sometimes when I have to look adoringly into someone’s eyes, I imagine they’re the eyes of Nellie, my golden retriever. I’m sure there’ve been many actors who’ve looked into mine and thought about their dog or their favorite pasta dish or sports team. There’s always something we can find to help us “fall in love.”
Unless a person stinks, and then I’m fucked. I have an off-the-charts olfactory sensitivity. So if someone has B.O. or bad breath, I’m screwed because that’s all I can think about. Whenever the caterers serve midmorning hot food during shooting, the odor becomes painfully distracting to me. On Chicago Hope, if they’d served beans at lunch, I’d have to breathe thr
ough my mouth until the crew’s fart clouds cleared.
Recently, I had to discreetly ask the assistant of a sloshed movie star whose breath smelled like sad old vodka to please give him some Binaca breath spray right before our kissing scene. Just in case, I put enough in my mouth for both of us. When his eyes watered while we kissed, I wasn’t sure if he was moved by the scene or if my mouth spray was setting his eyeballs on fire.
I’m a very dependent kind of actor. I can never act to a piece of tape on the side of the camera, like some cinematographers ask you to do. I have to look at my partners and respond moment to moment to whatever they give me. “Your ouch is only as great as their pinch,” my great acting teacher William Esper used to say.
This was a particular challenge for me in one big studio movie. My costar had come to the set so high on something that during my close-ups, he kept dozing off while he sat off-camera. My character, who was secretly falling in love, wanted to make a connection with this man. But as I said my lines, I noticed his eyes rolling up to the top of his head and starting to close. As his head began to bob forward, the cameraman poked him in the shoulder so he would wake up and say his lines. Once I thought I heard him snoring. It threw me so much, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Luckily, crying was appropriate for the scene. So I just used the fact that I was having to play a love scene all by myself. That could make a rock weep.
Love scenes can definitely get confusing. Even though you’re speaking written lines to a virtual stranger, you can’t fake it; you really have to find those feelings. In fact, in my opinion, every emotion has to be real; you can’t just pretend to be angry, joyful, sad, or lustful, you’ve got to really go there. I’ve often been asked, “How do you not fall in love with your costar? Don’t fiction and reality ever get confused?”
True Stories from an Unreliable Eyewitness Page 9
