“What is it, sweetheart?” I asked as I rounded her chair and looked into her face. Big tears slid down her cheeks. She was trying not to lose control.
“I’m so lonely,” she said. “I’ve loved being here with you so much, and now I have to go back to my life of being strong and independent again. I love being a little girl. I don’t like having to be a woman. Survival scares me. I know how to do it, but it’s so lonely.” She sobbed as she spoke. I put my arm around her and held her. Even as I hugged her, I was afraid that such a comforting gesture would contribute even more to uncontrollable sobbing. I wanted so much to take the hurt away, not to provoke even more.
God, did I know what loneliness felt like. How often I had felt that sense of lonely survival. Each time I waved a plane into the air carrying her father back to the Orient, it took days for me to adjust to his absence. Only later did I realize that bonding through dependence never works, whereas bonding through freedom always does.
Sachi was beginning to realize something that took me until I was in my mid-forties—feeling sovereign in oneself made it possible to have relationships with others that weren’t dependent.
As our time together during her convalescence progressed, we had each found each other again; and longing for contact and loving communication, we slipped into the joy of interdependency so successfully that the outside world didn’t exist for us. Our lives were each other. The future without the interdependency didn’t exist. And now that Sachi was well and the real world beckoned, the wrench of separation was difficult for both of us.
It was a time period analogous to the way so many of us lived our marriages, our love affairs, our family lives. The joys were obvious; the drawbacks less easy to work through. How could we live completely in the joy of someone we loved without the inevitable pain of separation?
Sachi and I sat together talking about how to deal with any relationship we loved having and yet being able to regard it with some distance so as to give it breathing room and space.
She had been without traditional family experience in her childhood, so her need to hang on to anything that resembled that was deep. Yet she was reserved in giving herself to it because of her fear of its going away. My reservations in giving myself to it were based on the potential of feeling suffocated and having my freedom inhibited. We each had different and opposite fears that nevertheless proved groundless, because we allowed ourselves to feel the love for each other. As most wise sages have said, love conquers everything. I would, out of love, always allow her her freedom while being there for her. And she, out of love, would do the same thing for me.
Marriages were certainly based on the values we had been conditioned to be afraid of or trust during our childhoods.
A great psychiatrist had once said to me, “In our adult lives we work out our problems with our parents through our love affairs. We work out problems with our siblings with our friendships.” It made sense to me.
As I sat talking with Sachi, her tears now subsided, I was aware that I was concerned with missing my airplane. Hadn’t that always been symbolic in my life. I had not often taken the time to simply feel a situation, give it time to percolate. I was seeing that I needed to take more time to savor the spices that love and communication afforded.
As soon as I made the decision that my plane didn’t matter, the doorbell rang. It was David, one of Sachi’s best friends, who had come to pick her up. She sprang from the chair, anxious to see him and then to get on with her day.
“Don’t miss your plane, Mom,” she reassured me. “I have things to do and so do you. I’ll be fine and so will you. Thanks for taking care of me. You’re a great Mom.”
With those words, I welled up because she had assuaged so many years of guilty concern.
Our midnight talks, the morning recap of dreams, the musings out to sea, all flooded through my mind again as we said good-bye to each other. Many times in our lives we had parted with an airplane waiting for me and a friend tending to Sachi or vice versa. How was it possible to be a working mother and still feel responsibly attentive to one’s family? Again I had to remind myself, it is the quality of time spent that matters, not the quantity.
Also something else occurred to me. Each of us has forgotten the child within: the carefree, joyful, nonjudgmental child. I was trying too hard to be a proper mother. Sachi was trying so hard to become a mature and proper adult.
Maybe we were both emphasizing society’s concept of maturity with all its repressions too much. Perhaps we should each take the time to find the child that still existed unrecognized and unnurtured within each of us.
KATHLYN CORINNE MACLEAN, GRADUATE OF ACADIA UNIVERSITY, NOVA SCOTIA, CANADA.
IRA O. BEATY, ESQ., GRADUATE OF AND TEACHER AT JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY.
DADDY HOLDING ME THE DAY HE NAMED ME AFTER SHIRLEY TEMPLE. MAYBE I HEARD IT AND TRIED TO LIVE UP TO HER.
MY DAD’S MOTHER AND FATHER DEALING WITH THEIR SON’S OFFSPRING.
DADDY BROUGHT ME A NEW TOY. I THINK I HAD A TANTRUM LATER.
THE LEGS WERE DANCER’S LEGS FROM THE BEGINNING. DESTINY?
WELTON AND ADA BEATY ON THE VERANDA IN FRONT ROYAL, VIRGINA.
MY REACTION TO SHARING PARENTS WITH A NEW ARRIVAL.
I LEARNED “ADORABLE” REALLY EARLY. THE RED CURLS AND BIG BOW DIDN’T HURT.
THIS IS HOW WARREN AND I FELT ABOUT HAVING OUR PICTURES TAKEN. IT HASN’T CHANGED MUCH.
SOMEHOW CARS WERE ALWAYS PRESENT TO REMIND US OF THE DATE AND OTHER MORE DOWN-TO-EARTH MATTERS. ME—FIVE; WARREN—TWO; TEETH—ZERO.
MY SORORITY PICTURE…SUB-DEB CLUB … CHIC-ER THAN GREEK!
MOTHER COULD HAVE BEEN A MODEL.
DAPPER DADDY WITH MATCHING HAT, JACKET, AND TROUSERS.
WARREN AND ME THINKING ABOUT OUR FUTURE.
WARREN AS FOOTBALL PIANO PLAYER, ME AS WOULD-BE FOOTBALL QUEEN PERFORMER.
I PLAYED THE FAIRY GODMOTHER, WHICH SOME WOULD SAY PORTENDED THE FUTURE. I WAS TOO TALL TO DANCE CINDERELLA, NONE OF THE SLIPPERS FIT.
MAYA PLISETSKAYA I WASN’T.
I WAS A “POST CARD” DANCE-HALL GIRL IN THE SUBWAY-CIRCUIT PRODUCTION OF OKLAHOMA. I WAS SIXTEEN GOING ON THIRTY… I PLAYED THIS PART MOST OF MY LIFE. (FRED FEHL)
EVEN I DON’T RECOGNIZE MYSELF. IT WAS MY RITA HAYWORTH VAMP PERIOD.
BEADED EYELASHES AND LIPS THAT WOULD GIVE COLLAGEN A BAD NAME.
WHAT A FAMILY.
TALK ABOUT HAVING YOUR NOSE TO THE GRINDSTONE. SOME CAME RUNNING, 1958.
DEAN TEACHING ME TO SMOKE, DRINK, CRACK JOKES, AND ACT NATURAL IN VEGAS. THE GUYS WITH THE PINKY RINGS WERE RINGSIDE.
MY BELOVED MORT.
WE STARTED THE APARTMENT WITH THIRTY-FIVE PAGES OF SCRIPT. WILDER AND DIAMOND WROTE THE REST AS WE WENT ALONG. I WONDERED WHERE THEY GOT THE IDEA FOR MY SUICIDE ATTEMPT!
JACK ALWAYS WONDERED IF THE DOG WAS PART OF THE DEAL—HOOKER-WISE. IRMA LA DOUCE. 1963. (PHOTOFEST)
MITCHUM AND ME IN “REAL” LIFE AND “REEL” LIFE. (PHOTOFEST)
GLENN FORD “ROPED” ME INTO THE SHEEPMAN. THE PRODUCER SAID I WASN’T PRETTY ENOUGH. WHO CARED?
MICHAEL CAINE’S FIRST AMERICAN PICTURE. MY SECOND ORIENTAL MAKEUP. MY EYES REMAINED SLANTED FOREVER AFTER. (PHOTOFEST)
GUESS WHO ON THE CAN-CAN SET. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO GLAMOUR? (© BOB WlLLOUGHBY)
VITTORIO DE SICA, WHOM I ADORED AS A FATHER-DIRECTOR. HE LOVED PUTTING ON MY DRESSES AND SHOWING ME WHAT TO DO. DANNY KAYE, WHOM I ADORED AS A FRIEND. HE’D TAKE ME ACROSS THE COUNTRY TO DINNER. HE WAS THE PILOT WHO FLEW THE PLANE AND THE COOK WHEN WE ARRIVED.
I USED TO VISIT LIZA, AGE NINE, AFTER A DAY’S WORK ON SOME CAME RUNNING. SHE’D DRESS UP AND PERFORM FOR ME.
MY WAIST CINCHER WAS PINCHING. SHIRLEY BOOTH WAS DOLLY LEVI IN THE MATCHMAKER. (STERLINGSMITH)
AUDREY TAUGHT ME HOW TO DRESS. I TAUGHT HER HOW TO CUSS. WE REMAIN DEAR FRIENDS. I LOVE HER.
GENE KELLY RECREATING OLD HOLLYWOOD MUSICAL SEQUENCE AS HE CHOREOGRAPHED WHAT A WAY TO GO!
YVES MON
TAND AND ME IN JAPAN ON MY GEISHA. HE HAD JUST COME AWAY FROM HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH MARILYN MONROE.
We were our own children really. We now needed to raise ourselves. We were each suffering from neglect and input that scared us, coming from parents that had in turn been neglected and frightened by their parents.
It was time to look to ourselves now—to find the child within us that had gone for too long without nourishment and allow it to play, to feel carefree, to indulge in games that were fun and to feel peace, security, and love.
Perhaps we needed to perceive the world a little bit more through the eyes of our child within. Because without the conditioning of society, that child is basically trusting, nonjudgmental of self and others, and indeed only interested in enjoying life.
Sachi and I kissed each other good-bye. A second childhood would be fun. But it couldn’t come until we had each worked through what our mothers had programmed us to be—all out of love.
CHAPTER 6
Postcards
I opened the thick soundproof door to Stage 17 and walked onto the set. It was dark and quiet. The crew milled around the camera with first-day jitters I could feel as I approached them.
Mike Nichols sat hunched in his director’s chair munching trail mix. His eyes sparkled with a kind of manic anticipation as he chewed. “Good morning, my darling,” he said, embracing me. “Are you certain you feel well enough to work? We can change things if you want.”
I was embarrassed by his sincere concern for me. “No,” I said quickly. “I’d rather die than keep you guys waiting or disrupt the schedule. I’m fine, really.”
Mike patted my shoulder and dipped into the trail mix again. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve just quit smoking.” He looked like a sensitive, frustrated cherub who would secretly rather expire from food than cigarettes anyway.
A voice of tender “put on” called me from behind. “Hello, Mommy,” it said. “I hope you’re all right.”
I turned around. It was Meryl Streep. Mommy? Oh, God, how am I going to pull this off? She walked over and embraced me. Should I hug this monument of genius as a protective-defective mother character or as a fellow actor who held her in awe? I opted for a friendly show-biz clinch, remembering that all in good time we would create a mother-daughter reality for those fans out there who would hopefully willingly succumb to our illusionary movie magic.
The Judds, I said to myself, just keep in mind the Judds. The mother is well preserved, and the daughter acts like the mother. Otherwise, how was I going to make anybody believe it if I didn’t?
“What happened to your tummy, Mummy?” asked Meryl.
Immediately I realized she was prepared and already in character for our scene. Did this mean she was never going to be Meryl?
“Oh, I guess I ate some bad organic fruit,” I said. “Maybe the alar is more healthy?” I tried to make a joke. “Or maybe it’s the three-page monologue I’ve got to spout on this first day.”
Meryl laughed, tossing her blond hair over her shoulders. “I know,” she said. “It’s creepy having to do this before we even know where we are. They’re having trouble with the process screen anyway.”
I looked at the setup. Meryl and I were supposed to play the scene sitting in the front seat of a car, which was erected in front of a screen with miles of process freeway traffic behind us. Someone hadn’t shot enough freeway footage, so either I had to act fast or we would wait until they spliced together more traffic footage.
“Hello, dear,” said a comically singsong voice from the shadows. It was Carrie Fisher. She had written the script of Postcards From the Edge and had decided I would be best to play the part patterned after her mother. Not that I was supposed to play Debbie any more than Meryl was going to play Carrie. “We’ll transcend the actual people,” said Mike. “You play a mother who happens to be a movie star who can sing and dance, and Meryl plays the daughter who has just gotten out of drug rehab and attempts to straighten out her life with her work and her mother.”
That all made sense to me, since Debbie was an old friend of mine whom I liked and respected for having survived the Hollywood wars. I had called Debbie as soon as they approached me to play the mother. I wanted to be sure she hadn’t wanted to do it herself and, if not, what she felt about me.
“Oh no, dear,” she said. “I can’t play myself. Besides it isn’t really me. I didn’t even do a good reading. You’ll be great. You’re funny, and the mother has to be funny. You’ll be fabulous. Have a good time with my daughter’s wonderful script. Carrie is a brilliant writer, and she knows what is right.” She and Carrie were obviously working out their own mother-daughter problems. Carrie’s script was the result. I wondered if Sachi would ever write about me. I wondered what my mother really thought about what I had already written about her. Mothers and daughters were certainly in fashion. It was about time.
I thanked Debbie. We talked on, and later that week I saw her with Jay Leno on The Tonight Show discussing her life, the book she had written about it, and how proud she was of Carrie.
Debbie had been very helpful to me when I first went into live performing. She controlled all of her shows and knew about sound, lights, musicians, and potentially dishonest business managers.
“Watch every penny,” she warned, “and, if possible, get a relative to run things. You can always trust your family.”
She gave me hints about costuming, trucking equipment, and how to deal with theater managers. She had worked her way up and learned her lessons every step of the way.
What was most interesting to me in playing the wonderful part that Carrie had created was the karmic balance of it. Twenty years before, I had been contracted to play The Unsinkable Molly Brown for MGM. There were some complications, because I was also under contract to Hal Wallis at Paramount. In the middle of the difficulties, Debbie called me. In what I thought was a real act of personal honesty and courage, she asked me if I would let the part go. I remember her words: “You’ll have lots of parts, dear, but this might be the last good one I’ll ever get. Let the old mother here have it.”
She charmed me. I loved her for it. I let it go, and she made history with it and is still bringing happiness to people all over the country on the stage with her own production.
It seemed karmically balanced that I would now play a character based on her life.
Meryl and I took our places in the front seat of the car. I quickly ran through the dialogue in my head. I knew Mike was a stickler for having precise rhythm with the words. He had a way of being so diplomatically kind with his insistent and correct discipline. He was an artist who had been hard on himself for years and, feeling happier lately, he had seemed to come to terms with his artistry and his desire to believe he was a man of great decency. I liked him a lot. I think he was feeling the same way about himself.
The cameras rolled (there were three of them), the process screen behind us cranked up, and Mike quietly yelled “Action.”
There I was, playing a long scene with a woman I considered to be one of the great actresses in the world. I was required to play everything looking straight ahead, because I was driving the car. I couldn’t look into Meryl’s face. I couldn’t really see what she was doing. I had all of the lines. She simply reacted. I knew she was eating M&M’s as I spouted my dialogue. I heard her well-orchestrated chuckles and grunts in response to what I was saying, which seemed appropriate to her character and the scene. I knew she was wearing sunglasses to shield herself from the harsh world outside of the rehab clinic, and I could feel her seem to tolerate the colorful “mother’s” dialogue as I plowed through the three-page scene, all of which, I thought, was written to enhance the character I was playing. I was wrong.
When I went to the “dailies” the next day, Meryl had, in my opinion, acted me off the screen. She seemed able to find comic nuances that I never dreamed were there, perfectly legitimate to her character and to the scene, without disturbing the balance. The woman was brilliant; and for the fi
rst time in my life, I felt that I was possibly outclassed.
This would be a new experience for me. She made me feel competitive, which I was uncomfortable with. I liked being friends with my fellow actors. I had always acted with people before. This felt like an exercise in simply staying in the race. Then I realized she wasn’t even acting really; she was living the part of the daughter, who was suffering from comparison with the mother.
So as the days and our work progressed, we developed a relationship based on mutual respect and admiration. Because she was living her part, I can’t say that I got to know her. For me it was an experience of hands-on observation of the seminal process of actually becoming a character; something I never wanted to do myself.
My working relationships with Anne Bancroft, Audrey Hepburn, Debra Winger, Shirley Booth, Dame Peggy Ashcroft, Sally Field, Olympia Dukakis, Dolly Parton, Daryl Hannah, Julia Roberts, Teri Garr, and many other fine actresses carried with them a certain personal intimacy, something of ourselves, apart from what we were playing.
With Meryl, I never had the pleasure of actually knowing her. But she happened to come along at a time in my life when I could recognize such a phenomenon as that of not being able to meet and know a part of myself. I couldn’t seem to “get in there” far enough to know her as my daughter as well as she seemed to be able to know me as her mother. Central to my role, of course, was precisely the kind of self-centered unawareness of others that would naturally shut out any intimate understanding of another person. So perhaps I was more on the mark than I seemed to myself, but it was Meryl’s vision and definable secrets in our screen relationship that belonged exclusively to her and that allowed her to forgive, and accept, and admire, and ultimately, to love that mother. She was able to mine the gold of our on-screen relationship as a one-person expedition, reaping the profits to her satisfaction and needing no one else to accomplish it. She was a magnificent one-woman band, playing and orchestrating her emotional instrument, oblivious to the fact that some of the rest of us felt as though we were acting alone. Perhaps that is the destiny of a real genius. Or put another way, perhaps that is the true meaning of channeling. When one channels divine talent, one is connected only to the source of it, and the physical presence of those who are also in attendance is irrelevant. A channeler puts aside the conscious mind and surrenders to another identity. That’s the phenomenon I saw in Meryl.
Dance While You Can Page 9
