by Sally Field
All of that is well and good, but what makes this movie important had nothing to do with water balloons or mustard sandwiches. I don’t need to look at the photos or even, God forbid, the film. All I need to do is close my eyes and instantly I can smell the dusty heat with a hint of sage, hear the clunking sound of the wooden wagon as it rolled next to me. I’m dressed in a potato sack with sleeves; there’s a rope tied around my middle and a pair of huge clodhoppers, without laces, on my feet. When you put that all together and add the thick bushy fall, or half wig, anchored to the crown of my head, I look like a bagged squirrel with big feet, walking in the midst of the Armada.
You need to know that the Armada, which was spread across a wide prairie-like field outside of Eugene, consisted of eight to ten covered wagons being pulled either by four horses, called a four-up, or by six horses, a six-up. The only exceptions were the two enormous oxen pulling the wagon that I now walked beside—the one belonging to my movie family—and on most days, I found myself sitting in this wagon, staring at their dung-covered hindquarters—not my family’s but the oxen’s. Some of the other actors were walking beside the wagons, as were most of the fifty or so extras—young and old—while several dogs ran around barking at the few scrawny cows being led by an extra or tied behind a wagon. A handful of stunt guys on horses were weaving in and out, looking for disruptive animals or panicked participants. The whole Armada was about half a mile long, give or take a mule or two.
It was one of my big scenes in the film—and I had a few—but this one worried me. In the front room of my memory, I can see the two of us, Brownie and Mercy, walking along, my focus locked onto the big brown stick about a hundred yards away, visible only by the red dot painted on its edge. This is my mark. The camera, mounted on a big arm connected to the crane, is slowly moving down from high above, overlooking the progress of the settlers, and when it reaches its proper position—about fifteen to twenty feet in front of my big stick—it will stop. At the moment the camera stops, I will hopefully reach the red smudge, step into the medium two-shot, and start crying. If, perchance, when I land on said stick, I am unable to remember my lines or happen to have an aneurysm, then everything in the Armada—whether on wheels or legs—will have to turn around and slowly return to its original position, leaving in its wake an overwhelming trail of manure, not to mention deep grooves in the supposedly virgin land. That’s when an army of “greens men”—or whoever can hold a rake—will scurry around in a frenzied attempt to erase all traces of mankind’s presence and, at the same time, my agonizing inability to act!!!
I’m walking alongside Brownie, sensing the camera’s movement, seeing from the edge of my eye the red dot. There it is, getting closer. I am almost at the red dot. I clench my hands. I hunch my shoulders. I’d jam a pencil in my eye if I thought it would help me land on that evil red dot and produce any kind of moisture in my eyes. Think, Sally, think. When was the last time you cried? Nothing. Crickets in my head. I am so benumbed by loneliness I feel nothing. Nothing! And I’m horrified by the realization—I don’t know how to deliver. Some people have menthol blown in their eyes by the makeup artist. I’d do that, sweet Jesus in heaven, if I knew where the makeup person was—which I don’t—and the red dot is getting closer. Why can’t I do it? The script says, “Mercy’s eyes well.” Okay, “well” your eyes, Field! My eyes don’t well. How does anyone “well” their eyes? You either cry or you don’t and you, Miss Field, are getting horribly, painfully close to don’t, and your eyes will remain well-less.
I hit my mark dead on—that I can do. I stop. The camera stops. Brownie stops. I say my dialogue with my shoulders touching my ears, and a look on my face like I’m about to join the oxen in producing a huge pile for the rakes to quickly hide before we can begin again.
In the middle of the Armada, well-less.
I don’t know how many takes there were. Not many. The director seemed happy, or at least we printed something and moved on, but I did not move on. I had hit a wall. It was agonizingly apparent to me; I was not good enough. And that discovery, coupled with the unforgettable pressure of that godforsaken Armada, lit a bonfire in the sweet place I’d created for myself—my acting bubble. I wanted to be better. And more than that, I never ever wanted to feel that helpless drowning panic of not knowing how.
Somewhere in my stomach a feeling starts, like a moth bashing itself over and over against a hot light bulb, and if I get this feeling while reading a script it means: Walk away, this one’s not for you. Every time I’ve ignored this fluttering advice I’ve struggled, sometimes learning hard lessons, sometimes wishing I could find a lesson to learn. At that point, my experience with reading screenplays was rather limited so it wasn’t a feeling I instantly understood, but from the minute I sat down in my newly rented apartment and began reading the pilot script waiting for me when I returned from Oregon, that kamikaze moth revved up and by the time I finished the last page, I knew.
The word no was almost impossible for me to say, but somehow, I managed to convey to my agent that the show was not my cup of tea. He was astonished, but kindly said he understood and hung up. He then called again to tell me, less kindly, that he thought I should do it. I could never clearly articulate why I so vehemently did not want to do the project, couldn’t clearly see that I wanted to be a part of my generation or at least not declare my allegiance to the establishment, especially a religious one. More than that was the bottom-line fact that I didn’t want to play a cutesy version of a Catholic nun, wearing nothing but beige with never a thought of sex or a flirt with madness, two things that seemed much more interesting.
Fifteen minutes after I’d talked to my agent, Bill Sackheim called—now the producer on this show as well. He began in a friendly, chatty way, reminiscing about our Gidget days together, then asked if he’d heard my response to the offer correctly. When I confirmed that he had indeed heard correctly, he was flabbergasted that I would consider walking away from this series, sounding personally injured, disclosing the confidential fact that the project had been written especially for me. Feeling proudly confident, I stuck to my guns, telling him I was sorry, it just wasn’t something I wanted to do. And with resigned understanding he hung up—then called back three more times, the last sounding impatient as he explained that he was only looking out for me and I SHOULD DO IT!
How did this even happen? Gidget had been an unmitigated flop, with weak ratings for most of the 1965–66 season. Yes, true. But when the show went into its summer reruns, the kids—who were then out of school—found it and Gidget suddenly became a hit (of sorts). At that time, the networks rarely moved a show to a different time slot in search of a bigger audience and never picked it up again after letting it go. So ABC wanted to find another show for Sally Field, and they asked Gidget’s executive producer, Harry Ackerman, to help. Mr. Situation Comedy of the fifties, sixties, and seventies, Harry was responsible for Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Father Knows Best, The Donna Reed Show, The Monkees, The Partridge Family, and many others. As luck would have it, he’d recently developed a show adapted from a thin children’s book called The Fifteenth Pelican and he wanted me to play that fifteenth pelican.
I remember clearly when Mr. Ackerman finally called. My armpits began to sweat but I stood straight, clenched my jaw, thanked him for his offer, apologized profusely, and ultimately stuttered a final no. After that, all went quiet on the Screen Gems front and the phone stopped ringing.
Two weeks later, Jocko appeared at my front door. I hadn’t seen him since I’d packed all my things into boxes and, with Steve’s help, had practically thrown them into my Encino apartment before locking the door and leaving for my first movie location. Hadn’t been around over that summer to watch my ever-declining family move again, this time into a tiny, shabby house that I can’t describe because I never set foot inside. And now, suddenly here he was, my stepfather, waltzing around my sparsely furnished one-bedroom and bath, wearing a forced smile as though he was proud of my new indepe
ndence, while I stood awkwardly caught off guard.
I remember watching him plop down on the cheap, unpainted bar stool I’d purchased for the kitchen counter, worrying that it would snap as he leaned back and casually suggested I make some coffee so we could talk. Quietly, I scooped and poured and pushed the appropriate buttons, willing my new percolator to hurry, until finally, holding his freshly made cup of Folgers, Jocko began. Harry Ackerman had called him, he told me. Which was a huge surprise because I had only recently told Baa about the offer and as far as I knew, Jocko and Mr. Ackerman had never met. But now he acted as if they were old friends, telling me that Harry wanted his help, wanted him to talk to me before it was too late. Looking at me as if I had four flat tires and he owned the only jack, he said, “I’m here to help you, Sal. Do the show.” Or something to that effect.
I was unprepared, had to scramble to find the confidence that wavered whenever my stepfather came near. Feeling my face flush with heat, I told him (with a definite whine) that I didn’t like the show. But Jocko started talking over me, saying he thought I was lost, that I was feeling like hot shit because I’d just had my first movie experience. I could feel my insides frantically searching for the new strength I’d found, wanting desperately to stand firm. Instead I opted for the truth and haltingly confessed that I wanted to do better work, that I wanted to be a better actor. He paused for a moment as if taking in my words, then said solemnly, “They’ve already started shooting this… with someone else. Do you know that?”
I hadn’t known, and for the first time a smack of doubt hit me. Thoughts flew through my head: Maybe I’ve given up something that other actors actually want, or maybe I don’t know enough to know what’s good, or maybe I have too many voices in my head to have any clear opinions at all. Then Jocko—the man who had told me he knew me better than I knew myself—reminded me that I’d earned very little money doing Gidget and even less making the movie, that I didn’t know the business like he did, and finally said something that I’ll never, ever forget. “If you don’t do this show, Sally, you may never work again.” And with that, one of the water balloons tossed from the Eugene hotel window landed on my head, drenching me with icy-cold fear. I was afraid.
Because of that, for three years I was the Flying Nun.
9
Wired
THE FLYING NUN was an instant hit. Everywhere I looked someone was telling a nun joke: on talk shows, variety shows, street corners. I couldn’t tell if the Flying Nun was the joke or I was, couldn’t distinguish between the bell of my past and the chimes of the present. I felt deeply disgraced, as if everyone were laughing at me.
When we first meet her, she is stepping off the boat in San Juan, Puerto Rico, having been transferred from San Francisco to the Convent San Tanco. Born Elsie Ethrington and given the name Sister Bertrille upon entering the convent, she is still a novice, not a full-fledged nun—a petite little slip of a girl who finds that when the trade winds come in contact with her wide-winged cornette, she has the startling ability to become airborne. “When lift plus thrust is greater than load plus drag, anything can fly” was the piece of scientific information that Sister Bertrille would repeat at the drop of a hat, though hopefully not her own. And trust me, her petite body—the load part of the equation—fluctuated radically throughout her stay at the Convent San Tanco.
It was all gibberish. Not inspired comedic nonsense like I Love Lucy or Fawlty Towers, but meaningless twaddle with nothing real to relate to. Most of the time the little bundle of ecru spent the half hour trying to convince agnostic Carlos—Argentinian actor Alejandro Rey—to change his playboy ways by manipulating him into helping her accomplish some good deed, usually teaming up with either Sister Sixto (Shelley Morrison), Sister Ana (Linda Dangcil), or Sister Jacqueline (the formidable Marge Redmond). And whatever well-meaning mischief the little nun and her cohorts got into, it always ended with a disapproving, though secretly charmed, reaction from the mother superior, played by the imposing, enigmatic Madeleine Sherwood.
The only episode I can remember actually being about something was the one where Sister Bertrille had to deal with Irving, a lovesick pelican, explaining gently that while she was very fond of him, she was not ready to settle down yet. Other than that, every episode was pretty much the same, every day pretty much the same. Including the day or two in each episode that was different, because they were always different in the same way. On those days I would have to fly. That meant I’d be wearing the harness, which was a cross between a corseted one-piece bathing suit and a straitjacket, with one large screw sticking out of each hip. After I got it on and tightly laced to my body, a specially made habit with corresponding holes on either side was placed over the torturous contraption, allowing the screws to poke through where two thin wires were then attached. They were called piano wires, but I doubt that they were the same fine strands of steel used to create music. Not while I was attached, at least.
During the pilot and early in production, I was required to do all the flying. Not only the tight shots—where you could actually see my face—but also the wider ones shot from a distance, when you couldn’t tell if it was me or Baby Huey thirty-five feet in the air. On these exterior days, mostly spent at the Columbia Ranch—so close and yet so far from Gidget’s neighborhood—I’d be connected to an enormous building crane by my nonmusical wires, then hoisted up over the façade of a large town square containing a brownish-gray convent. Operating this heavy piece of machinery was a bleary-eyed special effects man who usually smelled as though he would have failed a Breathalyzer test. This guy would then proceed to fly me smack into building after building, while the whole time I’d be screaming for him to watch where I was going. Luckily, I’d have time to prepare myself and as I watched the convent speeding toward me—or me toward the convent—I’d raise my legs and extend my arms, then plant myself on the wall—looking like Spider-Man in a nun’s habit. Halfway through production a blessed saint of a stuntwoman was hired, and Ralph, or whatever his name was, would then splat her all over the convent wall instead. I guess she was expendable.
I continued to do all of the closer flying shots, which were mostly filmed on Stage 2 at Screen Gems, where our sets were located. Wearing the same dreaded harness, I’d be cranked up ten or twelve feet off the ground in front of a blue or a green screen with two big fans standing just off camera to blow a steady gale in my face—the whole thing aptly called “poor man’s” process. I can’t say the days on the outside were more fun, but they were less painful for sure. Once the camera was in place, and the wires painted the color of the screen, and the wind blowing at just the right angle, I’d have to dangle there for what seemed like hours, leaning on or over a ladder between shots—usually supplied by a thoughtful grip.
When I was asked to surf for Gidget, the studio had provided me with a lesson or two, but no one gave me any pointers on how to perform in the air and no one thought I might benefit from a singing lesson or two… or four hundred. Because not only did Sister Bertrille fly, she also sang, something that didn’t come naturally to me—not that flying did. I’d always wanted to sing, and knew every musical by heart, but damn, I could not sing. And, as much as that tormented me, the studio didn’t see it as a problem. Every weekend they’d drag me into a recording studio, then place a pair of padded headphones over my ears and tell me to sing. I remember waiting, early one Saturday morning, on a bench outside one of the stages, filled with dread because I was going to have to stand up straight and do something I had no idea how to do. I’d been exactly on time to the Capitol Records Tower just off Hollywood Boulevard, but the stage I’d been assigned to was still occupied, so I sat there. For hours.
Finally, the door flew open and Grace Slick—along with much of Jefferson Airplane—stumbled out after having been ensconced for days, leaving me to fill their marijuana-infused stage with my zippy little tunes. My hair in braids, hands in my pockets, I stood on the worn wooden floor surrounded by abandoned music stands whil
e the producers moved into place behind the glass wall of the booth. Finally, the sound mixer put his hand on the enormous instrument board, I slipped the earphones over my head, then stepped under the huge hanging mic, and we were rolling. Yes, I could clearly hear the prerecorded track through the headset, but for Christ’s sake, I had no idea when to begin. Whatever pride I had was swallowed when the composer/producer stood and pointed at me, as though it were my turn to jump out of the airplane. His finger shot my way and without a parachute, off I went, singing the unforgettable lyrics of “Optimize, optimize and you’ll cut your troubles down to size…” Matters not that the notes were flat, that I didn’t have a clue how to sharpen the pitch; they all smiled, knowing they would fix it in the booth when I wasn’t around. They’d play my voice on top of itself three times, crank up the echo, and presto: humiliation at thirty-three and a third.
The Flying Nun sings, or wishes she did.
In February of 1968, after the show had been on the air for a few months, I was asked to be a presenter at that year’s Golden Globes ceremony. I was thrilled to be included with people whom I admired, real actors. But there was one little caveat: They wanted me to fly across the Cocoanut Grove, where the ceremony was being held, and then present the award. The Golden Globes were only interested in me as the Nun, not as Sally Field. I didn’t know which edge of that sword to feel. I wanted to be invited to the party but I didn’t want to have to be a laughingstock in order to be included. The publicity department, plus Bill Sackheim, repeatedly told me how much they—the studio—wanted me to do it, saying it would be great for the show.
Why was that word, that tiny word, so hard for me to utter? NO. It was a frightening, dangerous word, like the pin in my personal hand grenade, and if I pulled it, I could explode myself, plus everyone around me. And when I’d feel the power of the pin between my fingers, I’d hear the words my mother repeated to me every time I faced a dreaded weekend with my father; they were stitched into my life. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”