What falls away : a memoir

by Farrow, Mia, 1945-

  Still, Fletcher was hoping Woody would come to his sixth-grade graduation that June, and Woody had told him

  he'd see if he could make it. But as the weeks passed with no further word, Fletcher prodded me to ask him.

  "I don't want you to feel pressured," I said, as we were crossing West Seventy-second Street, "but it would mean a lot to Fletcher if you would come to his graduation."

  "I'll have to think about whether you have any right to ask me that," he said, cold as ice. Better he had slammed a fist in my face. Then he was talking nonstop like always about the next movie, so he didn't notice how, right there on Seventy-second Street, a part of the dream began to die.

  Of course I didn't bring it up again. Fie didn't come to the graduation. And he didn't seem to notice as Fletcher quietly withdrew.

  In the summer of 1986 Casey and I took our kids in my big red Suburban to visit my mother and stepfather in upstate New York, then on to a grand adventure exploring the Howe Caverns, while Woody m New York was busy writing the next WAFP, September.

  Initially he planned to make the film at Frog HoUow; ever since he first saw the place he'd been saying how perfect it would be to shoot a movie there, the way the rooms flowed into one another, the relationship of the house to the lake and the guest cabin, the woods, and the field, his favorite place to walk. But we were locked into a winter shooting schedule, and he wanted a sun-drenched Chekovian summer, so we ended up back at Astoria Studios.

  September had been structured as a play, but shot as a film on a single set of adjoining rooms. It explored the relationships of six characters in an isolated summer house, and the long-term traumatic effects of an incident that had long intrigued Woody: the killing of Lana Turner's lover by her teenage daughter. Strains of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard can be traced throughout.

  The wedding party: Patrick and Susan Farrow, me, Frank, and Prudence.

  I

  I

  Steffi, Mom, Dolly Sinatra, johnny, Martin Sinatra, and Tisa Farrow.

  The presentation of an English cab to Frank—Yul has the papers and George Jacobs is at attention.

  The day I cut my hair.

  (Courtesy of 20th Century—Fox)

  With Neile

  Adams and

  her husband,

  Steve

  McQueen,

  my friend

  Leonard

  Gershe, and

  Liza

  Minnelli at

  Andy

  Warhol's

  Factory in

  Manhattan,

  1967.

  (Courtesy of Archive Photos)

  ^PB^^^'

  ''fiv, W^ith Roman Polanski

  shooting Rosemary's Bahy on a New York street.

  I Rosemary's Baby © 1968 by Paramount Pictures)

  My friend and assistant Barbara Daitch in her orange hat.

  (Photo h Raytnond Ktssack)

  Spring ot 1968 in India: Patty

  Jamison, John Lennon, Mike

  Love, the Maharishi, George

  Harrison, me, Donovan, Paul

  McCartney, Jane Asher,

  and Cynthia.

  (Courtesy of Rex USA Ltd.)

  Johnny, me, and John Lennon. ^wi*

  Johnny and me in our hut of palms m Goa.

  ^

  *rF Jk

  Joseph Losey on location m I Holland shooting Secret Ceremony.

  With Elizabeth Tavlor in Secret Ceremony, 1968. (Courtesy of Universal Studios)

  With Dustin Hoffman in John and Mar^ 1969. I^Ccurtesy of 20tk Ceiitun—Foxj

  The Haven, in Reigate, Surrey, where Andre and I lived with the children.

  Lark, Sascha, Fletcher, Daisv, Matthew—the first five, 1975.

  The twins: Matthew (left) and Sascha, born in 1970.

  Three Sisters on the London stage: Jov Parker, me, and Gwen Watford. (Courtesy of the Hulton Cett Picture Collection)

  mr^'^7^-£^

  Lark and me.

  ■)Cfte Davis m Death on the NiU, 1978.

  Moses joins the family m 1980; here he is napping with Fletcher.

  Fletcher and Daisy, the second set of "twins."

  In front of our house on Lake Tashmoo. fPhoto by Star Schapiro)

  Lark, Soon-Yi, and Daisv on Martha's Vineyard.

  mmrmmm I

  Andre, Fletcher, Sascha Matthew, and Daisy at the piano.

  My friend Casey Pascal holding her godchild, Dylan.

  Lark, Sascha, Daisy, me, Fletcher, Matthew, and Soon-Yi in our apartment on Central Park West in New York.

  Lighting candles for peace on New dear's Eve at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in New ^brk.

  Dino De Laurentiis, Sven Nykvist, and me on Bora Bora tor Hurricane, in 1978.

  At Frog Hollow: Isaiah seated on the wall.

  Moses Amadeus Farrow.

  OPPOSITE TOP: Satchel O'Sullivan Farrow.

  OPPOSITE BOTTOM: Thaddeus W. Farrow and Isaiah Justus Farrow.

  D-Ian O'Sulhvan Farrow.

  « L£

  In Ireland tor Widow's Peak with Tarn, Isaiah, and Moses.

  The bovs—Satchel. Thaddeus, and Isaiah—^et readv for bed.

  Mv mother holding

  Kaeli-Shea, with Dylan on the left, Tarn behind, and Satchel on the n2;ht.

  Tarn and Frankie-Mmh Farrow.

  The next generation: Lark and Daisy and my first two grandchildren, Sara and Patrick.

  Matthew, Lark, Satchel, Daisy, and Tarn at Sascha's wedding.

  The screenplay of September was ambitious and problematic. We reshot every single scene as we went along, sometimes four or five times. Woody rewrote major scenes overnight or during lunch, while the cast scrambled to learn the rewrites and to make the long speeches and sometimes ponderous dialogue sound credible and fresh. Fine actors fell by the wayside, including my mother. Parts were recast. There was a shaky feeling in the air. I was relieved when my mother went back with her husband, to the safety of their lives upstate.

  When finally the main shoot was over, Woody assembled the footage, looked at it, and threw out the entire thing. Within five weeks he had rewritten the script and we were back at Astoria reshooting the film with a different cast.

  As usual I brought Dylan to work, and her crib and toys filled my dressing room. She was now an active toddler who made full use of the long studio hallways. At eighteen months she could sing a dozen songs and speak her mind clearly; she loved being read to and she could identify all the letters of the alphabet. At home and at work she was doted on. And to everyone's astonishment, no one was more doting than Woody Allen.

  Woody's parents, the senior Konigsbergs, wintered in Florida, but when they were in New York we dropped by to see them with some of the children every few weeks or so in a ritual that did not vary. Woody would ring their doorbell and then cover the peephole. They always opened it anyway. From the time we walked in until we left a half hour later, he did not address them directly, or sit down or stop mov-mg.

  His father was usually watching television when we arrived. Both parents were hard of hearing, as is their son, so the volume was way up.

  "You could change the channel and he wouldn't know the difference," said Woody loudly.

  "What'd he say?" his mother would ask.

  "I don't know," I would answer.

  "Can you believe I came from these people?" he said. Of course I could, because he looked exactly like his mother. They seemed like lovely people, but early on things had gone wrong, and Mrs. Konigsberg was always eager to talk about it.

  "I don't know," she used to say. "Maybe I was too hard on him when he was young."

  "She hit me every day of my life," Woody would call out from wherever he was in the room.

  "He was difficult," his mother went on. "Running, jumping, and pulling off his clothes, he was never still. I didn't know how to handle that type of child, he was too active. I was strict with him. Maybe if I hadn't been so strict he would have been different—softer, maybe. Warm
er. With his sister it was different, she was an easy child. You could put her down and she would stay there. I was much sweeter with her. Maybe I was too hard on him." Her voice would trail off. She always asked me about my mother, and about each of the children by name. Mr. Konigsberg didn't talk much.

  Mrs. Konigsberg passed out chocolate-chip cookies, and with amazement tinged with disapproval, she watched her fifty-two-year-old son romping, cuddling, crawling, and clambering after Dylan.

  "It's too much," she'd say to the kids and me as we sat on the sofa eating our cookies, waiting for the half hour to pass. "It's not good for her."

  "Twist her nose off," Woody would order Dylan. "She's the wicked witch. Go on, twist it off."

  "What'd he say?" his mother would ask.

  "Nothing." I'd shake my head. "Dylan, why don't you

  come over here and have one of these good cookies? Everybody, careful, don't get chocolate on this white couch."

  Woody's response to Dylan was more than I ever imagined. In truth It was much more than I had seen in any father toward a child in my whole life. And Td been married to an Italian, a passionate, emotional guy who was nuts about his daughters; and to Andre, who, when he was there, was an affectionate and demonstrative father. But the most effusive description of Woody Allen could not truthfully include the words passionate, emotional, affectionate, or demonstrative. His reaction to Dylan was a radical departure from his usual behavior. I told myself he'd never really played with a child before, he just didn't know how. Surely he would relax in time.

  I had to believe that the participation of the man I loved in the parenting of my child, a situation I had long hoped for, was an answered prayer, a door opening, a new shared, sacred dimension of our lives. And though work remained far and away his priority, by 1987 Dylan was becoming a central consideration in his life. I still hoped his feelings for her would lead to a deeper commitment to the entire family. But not aU of the signs were pointing that way.

  He asked me for the key to my apartment. On days we didn't work, he would arrive at about dinnertime. The kids were either in their rooms doing homework or still at the long kitchen table, where the events of the day were related and opinions aired in the liveliest fashion. Our adored housekeeper. Mavis Smith, who had been with the family since 1979, always cooked a terrific meal, and made fresh brownies or chocolate-chip cookies before she left for the evening. Even if Woody and I were planning to go out to dinner later, I served the food and sat with the children.

  We'd hear the doorbell's short, loud burst, then the turn of the lock, the heavy slam of the glass-and-wrought-iron

  front door, and he was in our kitchen. With barely a nod to me or the other kids, he headed for Dylan. With his mouth wide open, bigger than a grin, his eyebrows high over the black frames of his glasses, it was a face unaccustomed to its own expression—an expression so asymmetrical, large, unguarded, hungry, and foreign, that I would blink to make the strangeness pass, as he scooped Dylan out of her high chair and carried her off into another room.

  Woody had been in favor of me adopting another baby when we had talked about it months ago. "The other kids are so much older, it would be good for her to have a playmate, a little sister," he had said, and now I found myself thinking, Surely another baby will dilute this intensity.

  All of the children I had adopted before Dylan had been classified as "difficult to place." With my fingers crossed, I showed Woody pictures of little girls in the United States and other parts of the world who were no longer babies, or who had disabilities. When my mother asked why, I told her that I had learned from Moses, firsthand, that meeting special needs is a special privilege, which brings a parent special rewards. It seemed that on the deepest level the other children understood this. Matthew, at seventeen and Yale-bound, had written in his college application essay, "Only now do I fully understand that my mother's way of making life meaningful was to give a home to orphaned children. As a result she has saved four lives and enriched her own. If I can do so much, my life will have been a success."

  Woody hadn't been open to the idea before, but now he didn't rule out the possibility, so long as it was a girl. We would see. Dylan wasn't yet two. We were still slogging away on September when I learned I was pregnant.

  Woody's response was unemotional, almost formal. September was in Its seventh month, I reasoned, and had taken

  its toll on all of us. It was understandable. Having a baby was the last thing on his mind.

  I can only suppose it had never occurred to my children that their mother would ever do anything that could result in pregnancy. It was an adjustment for all of them, and they seemed a little stunned at first, particularly Soon-Yi, whose dislike for Woody had always been palpable. Because she had arrived m our family just as Andre was leaving it, I worried that she had lacked a positive male role model in her life. So when she was little, I asked Woody several times if he would take her for a walk, buy her an ice cream or something, but he had declined. Now, when I told her I was pregnant, she burst into angry, uncomprehending tears. She didn't like Woody, she said, he was nasty and ugly, and the baby would be ugly like him. I held her and tried to reassure her.

  My own reaction was more surprising. I'd given up thinking it was possible for Woody and me to have a child. My first elation turned to worry: Woody's lack of enthusiasm was depressing, I felt shut out. I began to wonder where I stood and to take stock, to clarify the way I wished things were for this coming child, and for all my children, and for me. I had begun to feel that his behavior with Dylan was strange. And it was not easing off, it was growing more extreme. But when I tried to talk to him about it, he got so angry. He had grown remote since our first years together, and cruel; not all the time, but so often he made me feel stupid and worthless. We were in each other's company constantly, but I no longer felt needed or loved. I did love him, but for the first time I admitted I was afraid of him.

  I felt I should end the relationship, but I didn't know if I would be able to do that. Emotionally I was dependent on him, and the possibility that he would not want to work

  with me anymore was frightening. I seemed to have lost whatever definition I had once had of myself as an independent working woman, and in the process I had also lost confidence in my ability to survive without him.

  Perhaps the new life inside me gave me the strength to tell him that the relationship, as it existed, was unacceptable. The conversation took place first thing in the morn-mg. Standing face-to-face in his dressing room at Astoria Studios, I told him everything I felt. He was surprised and angry. Finally I said that I couldn't continue, and that I needed some distance from him.

  But he didn't go away. He would not go. It was so strange. September ended, and he kept right on coming over to my apartment every single day. He started showing up at five-thirty and six in the morning. He'd be sitting in my kitchen hours before anybody was up. He came to Frog Hollow too, even overnight. I didn't know what to do. We politely ignored each other while he followed Dylan around. And then, afiier some weeks of this, I lost my resolve, the line blurred, and we were together again. I needed him and I loved him.

  We went on a trip together that same summer of 1987. It was the first time we had brought all the children to Europe. I was no longer throwing up, and I felt fine. It was the celebration of our new beginning. Woody is a restless traveler so we kept moving—Paris, Stockholm, Helsinki, Venice, London, Luxembourg—we were averaging almost a country a day. We drove, in a van and a limo, six or seven hours at a stretch. We were driven from Paris to Mont-Samt-Michel, which has probably been a tourist trap since the Middle Ages, only nobody told us. Woody took one look, checked the rooms, ate an omelette, and we drove all the way back. We would have stayed overnight, but there was something wrong with the bathroom.

  Parisians are a lot nicer if you're with Woody Allen. His efficient assistant Jane was there, ensuring things went with-

  out a hitch. During the day, while the kids and I goofed arou
nd in the hotel suite or went sight-seeing, Woody would write in the separate room he kept, for that purpose and for the bathroom.

  One night in Paris, after Dylan's second birthday, I'd just given her a bath and put her to bed when, for the first time, I gathered all my courage and told him what I'd been thinking for many months and could no longer remain silent about: that I was worried about his behavior with Dylan. I had been hoping it would change, but it hadn't. It was getting worse. I told him that he'd been looking at the little girl m a sexual way. He stared at her whenever she was naked, and he was all over her, all the time, fondling her, not giving her any breathing room.

  All that happened was that he got very angry.

  When we returned from the trip I learned that the baby, due in December, would be a boy. A more perceptive person might have noticed Woody's interest slip from zero to minus. His focus was on the next movie. And Dylan. He wanted to adopt her, to be her legal father, but his lawyers didn't know if it would be possible since we weren't married. They were trying to figure out a way. I just listened. And privately, I worried.