It's All In the Playing

by Shirley Maclaine

  “But I’m a Catholic,” he said finally.

  I could think of no sensible response to this and we returned to the living room. We finished reading. He was so uncommonly talented at reading the metaphysical lines, it was as though he understood them. True, they had an Irish Catholic ring to them, but that was what made it human. Colin and I were enthralled. John himself seemed to be enjoying the impossible. He understood that the dialogue was unplayable except by an actor with a profound talent for throwing meaningful platitudes away. He read the stuff as though he were reciting a laundry list, and it worked.

  He interspersed some funny sarcastic comments such as “Lake T-I-T-I-C-A-C-A? I’m supposed to say Titicaca and not break up? The fathers in the dorm won’t like that at all.” Then he’d imitate one of the priests right out of Barry Fitzgerald’s Hollywood.

  Every now and then John would extract a Lucky Strike cigarette from a rumpled pack, light it with ceremony, and take a long comfortable drag. He’d blow tiny little rings while he stared at his feet, tilted his head, and thought. Then he’d say, “I could be down at the bar, or skiing.”

  I didn’t realize it then, but John never said anything that wasn’t symbolic. I mean, you had to learn his language even to carry on a conversation with him, but then I had been weaned on Robert Mitchum and Debra Winger. It was basically the language of artful paranoia which provided tidbits of apparently irrelevant remarks slung into the conversational mix and usually relating to something on their minds. If you plucked one of the tidbits and held it close, you might find you had grabbed yourself the brass ring. On the other hand, before you could properly be aware of it, you might be left holding a hot steamy turd. The game was to use human beings as a sounding board against which to experiment with humor, hostility, fear, sadism, and even fun and wit—the intent being to inveigle others into the game but not to divulge the rules. The originators of the game are the only ones who know. That left several options: if the game wasn’t proceeding according to their wishes, they could always deny that a game was even in progress. If they got tired of it or felt outclassed, they simply became colorfully incoherent and soon you realized you were playing symbolic Ping-Pong with yourself. The whole exercise was meant to disorient the fellow player so as to expose his weaknesses and insecurities. The result was that the artful paranoiac would be armed with more personal knowledge of his opponent while divulging no such personal information himself.

  But when the practitioners of this form of super one-upmanship know you’re on to them, it can really be fun. That was the case with John and me. I had sort of learned after rehearsing with Mitchum and Winger how to be honest about the buttons they pushed in me, yet without actually divulging much personal information they could wield against me. (In fact, the personal information was in the public domain, but part of the game is spontaneity, subjective reaction, a kind of dare—to themselves as much as anyone.)

  So, after John would say things like “I could be down at the corner bar or skiing” (I don’t think he’d ever been on a pair of skis in his life), he’d look at me and say, “Did you really write this stuff?” or “So you think Ronald Reagan is walking in the light?” I’d quickly regroup my reactions and tell him how stunned I was at how skillfully he brought even difficult dialogue “into the light” and “Yes, Ronald Reagan would benefit from that too.” He’d do his silent chuckle and blow more smoke rings and tilt his curly head and smile at his black Reeboks.

  Colin Higgins had a different reaction. He was a straight person, sensible enough not to bother wasting time with the kind of imaginative child’s play that could lead to nothing but overtime and overbudget problems. That was one aspect, and he could cope with that. But the other was the manipulative quality of artful paranoia. Colin was an honest man who deplored insidiousness. Yet I think the irreverent audacity of defying convention with such sleight-of-hand techniques was a method he himself might have secretly admired, yet felt too timid to employ. Whatever—Colin observed John’s reading and behavior as a perturbed headmaster would regard an obstreperously canny-shrewd schoolboy.

  I felt myself wanting to play with John yet not caring to isolate Colin, which was one of John’s pranksterish maneuvers—divide and conquer.

  Fortunately the reading came to an end and John was in the position of wondering whether he had gotten the part. Regardless of the labyrinthine lengths to which he would go to be undetected, it still came down to “Do I go to work?”

  Colin and I had another appointment, so John ambled out of my apartment, patting the script under his arm as the symbolic signal that he really wanted to play David.

  When the door closed, Colin said, “That guy really pushes my buttons. I wonder why. I think I’m supposed to learn a lot from this….”

  He gazed out the window and fidgeted. “We come from the same Irish Catholic background.” Colin took a stance with his legs far apart and folded his arms in front of him as he counted the available cabs on the street below.

  “One thing for sure. The guy can really act. He makes the playing so real.”

  I stood beside him. A weird sense of perspective came over me. “I get the feeling that all of this is an act right now,” I said. “That we’re all playing in this play within a play.”

  Harold got a sly inexplicable smile on his face. “So,” he said, “is John Heard just going to help me play myself better?”

  I retired to the kitchen for a drink.

  “One thing else is for sure,” I said. “He’ll show us how phony we are.”

  “What do you mean?” Colin yelled after me.

  “I’m not real sure. But I just think he will.”

  The phone rang. Not more than two and a half minutes could have gone by since John left. It was his manager calling.

  “John tells me he doesn’t think he gave you what you wanted. Is that true?” asked the manager.

  I was shocked. “Are you kidding? He was brilliant. Tell me, had he read the script?”

  The manager laughed. “Who knows? You know John.”

  “‘You know John’? What does that mean?”

  “It means: who can figure him out, least of all him?”

  That was to become a refrain echoed around North and South America by a small band of people trying to make a movie about unseen and alternative realities. Then and now, I knew he was what we needed—and what the film needed. Figuring him out was his problem.

  “Listen, Bill,” I said. “He’s more terrific than we ever dreamed. He is totally unpredictable, and what he gave us is not what we expected, that’s all.”

  “Well, he just wanted to know.”

  “Did he call you from a phone booth on the corner?”

  “Why?”

  “He just left.”

  “Well, as you probably picked up, he’s an anxious fellow.”

  “Anxious to please?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “No,” said Bill. “I’d say you will be pleased, but that’s not what he’s anxious about.”

  “What is he anxious about?”

  “Oh, you know John,” he replied.

  You might say John had the right manager….

  Chapter 8

  Colin and I returned to California to inform ABC of our John Heard decision. A deal was made. We also decided that in the interest of legitimate reality, Kevin Ryerson and his entities should play themselves. A real actor could get more out of the scenes but what we’d gain in performance would be lost in credibility. We wanted the show to be as real as possible since we were venturing into such new terrain. Besides, why not have television’s first real cinematic trance channeling experience? We then proceeded to read prospective Bellas. Each woman who came to read had something to offer and each woman was understandably pressured by Bella’s real-life image, since she was so availably well known.

  Anne Jackson, however, was the best. She was funny, earthy, not too broad, and of course an experienced actress who caught Bella’s rhythms and p
unches perfectly for the small living-room screen.

  Bella’s reaction to Anne’s playing her was not so perfect. I heard the Washington politician at work as she lobbied for herself on the telephone.

  “Listen,” she said. “I know you wrote me as a foil for you. I have some problems with that anyway,” she began.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, since my full dimension isn’t being portrayed—and,” she went on, “I know, it’s your story, not mine. But since I’m only a foil I want to protect myself by playing the foil my way. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Bella was smart and personally self-confident. Everything she was saying made sense from her point of view. I tried to explain that the comedic political lines wouldn’t work with her playing herself, because her very presence would demand more than the story could accommodate. Yet, if an actress portrayed her, the comedy focus would be acceptable, and as a matter of fact would probably get her votes when she decided to run again.

  “When is this thing going to air?” she asked shrewdly.

  “Either May or November. Brandon Stoddard is not sure yet.”

  “But November is after the election if I decide to run for Congress.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’ll tell Brandon it better be May if he knows what’s good for him. He’ll contact the affiliates and all the advertisers immediately.”

  I heard her laugh that gutsy no-nonsense rumble that comes from her belly.

  “God, it’s good to hear that,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Well, I take this as a personal rejection brought on by the network which is afraid of my political image.”

  “Oh, Bella. C’mon. That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “I know you’re not telling me because you’re not willing to fight them. They’re afraid of me and what I represent—that’s why they don’t want to use me and you know it.”

  This I never expected. “Bella,” I protested. “It’s me who doesn’t want to use you. That’s the truth. Neither the network or Brandon or any of those guys has interfered with anything I want to do. This is a purely artistic decision. I’m looking for who would be the best to play you, not only for the good of the show but also for the good of your next election. You’ll get a lot of votes if this part is played right.”

  I could have been a lobbyist myself. On the other hand, some part of what I said didn’t sound right.

  “Are you telling me,” she said, “that anybody besides me would play me better than I would play me? And that somebody else would get more votes than I would?”

  I gulped. “Yes,” I said. “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  She hesitated. “Well,” she said finally. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve talked to a lot of my friends and they think it is a natural that I play myself.”

  I really didn’t know what to say. We never should have read her in the first place. What would this do to our relationship? We had certainly had our ups and downs, but this time I was the cause of her rejection.

  “Listen,” she said finally. “I know they were thinking of Marilyn Bergman to play me. It’s ridiculous. Even though she’s a friend of mine, she’s a songwriter.”

  “Yes, Bella,” I said. “I know. Marilyn was someone else’s idea, not mine. She’s not an actress. We’d have the same problem of emotional discipline with anyone who isn’t an actress. That’s why we’re using Anne Jackson.”

  “Anne Jackson.” She said the name as if it were the dog’s dinner.

  “Yeah,” I said. “One of the most brilliant actresses in the American theater. She loves you.”

  “She’s got red hair.”

  “So do you—now.”

  “She has blue eyes.”

  “We’ll make her use contacts.”

  “How can she walk like me?”

  “She can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s much thinner.”

  Bella began to mock-whimper. “Now you’re insulting me. Why are you always right? Why does it have to be your way all the time?”

  I sighed deeply into the phone. “Well, my darling, because this is what they call show business.”

  “Well, why can’t I be the star of my own self?”

  “Look at it this way, Bellitchka. You are going to be the reason that Anne Jackson will be great. And everyone will think you are really that warm and funny.”

  “Well, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, of course you are, and much, much more too. But we can’t draw attention to the fact that we’re not utilizing all of you.”

  I heard her light a cigarette and blow the smoke into the phone, calculating her next move. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m underutilized all the way around. That’s my big problem in life. And you, my good and best friend, are preventing me too.”

  I thought I’d let a pregnant pause go by. Maybe she’d think she was going too far. But that’s not possible with Bella. What she said next was really hard to answer.

  “Listen,” she pressed. “Those mediums are playing themselves, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And those ghosts, dead people types are playing themselves, right?”

  “Bella, they are not ghosts and they’re not dead people. Nobody ever dies. You know that.”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re killin’ me!”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Well, those spirits then. They’re playing themselves.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Well, why can’t I be given the same respect as a spirit?”

  “Because,” I said flatly, “you’ve got too much to live for and I don’t want you to die in the part.”

  I could feel her begin to rise to yet another challenge, almost as though combat was her pleasure, not victory. In any case, I begged off as gently as possible and hung up.

  Stan poked his head around the corner.

  “Slight hitch,” he said. “John Heard’s manager called. He’s decided he can’t play the part because it’s against his religion.” Stan shoved a piece of paper on the desk.

  “Here,” he said. “These are some other possibilities.”

  A sledgehammer hit my throat and I suddenly couldn’t swallow. My throat closed in a tight squeeze of soreness. I wanted to laugh out loud but it hurt too much. It was clear that I was feeling so constricted in communicating what I wanted and needed that I had instantly given myself a sore throat. It wasn’t the first time. Each time I got the flu or a cold, or certainly a sore throat, upon reflection I realized it was tied directly to an emotional disappointment. What made me want to laugh was how fast I could manifest the self-recrimination these days. What used to take a day or two was possible in a few minutes now. A metaphysical sophisticate said to me once: “Isn’t it wonderful that you manifest a cold and a runny nose for yourself so that you can release all the pent-up tension and unbalance.” As the fly said when he walked over the mirror: “That’s one way of lookin’ at it.”

  I sat down and stared at the wall. As far as John Heard was concerned, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It was too right. As far as I was concerned, he was meant to play the part. That was why I couldn’t think seriously of anybody else. The question now was how to handle his insecurity. He wasn’t a devout Catholic. He was more like a collapsed Catholic. So what was the real reason? If there was one. If he wasn’t just game-playing.

  After about fifteen minutes of thought, I called Bill, John’s manager.

  “What’s up, Bill?” I asked. “I thought he loved the idea.”

  “Well, yeah, but you know John,” he answered.

  “I see,” I said prophetically. “But be more specific. What’s this about its being against his religion? Didn’t he know that when he read it? It’s taken a while for the deal to be made. How come he let all that happen?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not it.”

  “What’s it then?”

  “You want to tal
k to John? To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

  Bill arranged for John to take my call in about fifteen minutes. John said, “Hi. It’s not my religion. It’s my dentist.”

  “Oh, that again,” I answered knowingly.

  “Yes, and Melissa.”

  “Melissa?”

  “Yes. My girl.”

  “You mean you’ll miss her?”

  I could sense his head tilt on the other end of the phone.

  “Well, you know. She has real white skin. And she spends a lot of time in balconies.”

  “Balconies?” I asked. (When in doubt, repeat.)

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh huh,” I said.

  “Sooo.”

  “So?”

  “Yeah. I mean can you get room service at midnight?”

  “Where, John?”

  “Well, when I’m hungry.”

  “I think we can make sure there’s always food around.”

  “I’m bulky. Did you like how I tried to hide my fat stomach with the navy-blue shirt?”

  “Yeah. It was pretty clever. But I like you chunky. I think it’s cute.”

  “Melissa doesn’t think I’m cute. She thinks I’m a fuck-head.”

  “Are you?”

  “But of course.”

  “So tell me why you’re coolin’ on the part, John.”

  He didn’t hesitate. The other was just a preamble both of us understood.

  “Because,” he said, “I’m not sure I can give you what you want. I mean, you really lived this stuff. How do I know what you’re talking about?”

  “Well,” I said, “I liked the way you made it your own. I had not imagined it the way you did it. It was better. And you might have noticed I’m not married to anything preconceived.”

  Somehow during the silence that then prevailed I realized he was thinking about the Catholic Church.

  “Listen, John,” I said, “if you are worried about the Church’s reactions to what we’ve written, Standards and Practices [the network’s clearance department] has already gone through it all and approved it.”

  “They have?” he asked apprehensively.

  “Yes. And my research matches theirs.”