by Sally Field
A rare hug from Joy at a 1977 family gathering.
I never mentioned it and neither did he, but those were usually the times when Burt would toss gifts at me, some of them very expensive things that felt as though they were meant for someone else. Once he gave me a yellow Corvette, reminiscent of the long-ago blue Ferrari and equally ridiculous. Why give me a small sports car with virtually no back seat? I’d never expressed any interest in cars and had two young children, plus I was frequently expected to chauffeur Burt’s Great Dane, Bruiser, around with me during the day because the dog got lonely. Can you picture what the four of us looked like in that car?
Though Sybil had aired to great acclaim, Smokey had not been released yet and the industry didn’t know what to make of me. To everyone’s amazement I had somehow become a strong actor, but if Sybil was any example, then I was definitely not pretty enough to be leading lady material. Not only that, but to play across from most of the leading men at that time, I appeared too young, and certainly not sexy enough—whatever sexy is. How long could I wait for the right project? I couldn’t let myself sink back into a sitcom, but I had to earn a living. I had to find a way to tread water, to keep afloat until I could catch another project, a place where I could do the work I now knew how to do.
My next film was not that. The script wasn’t very good and while I worried that I wasn’t moving forward, I didn’t think I’d be going backward either. Plus, sometimes you have to do the best you can with what you’ve got, and that was Heroes. So when Burt was on location in Texas filming Semi-Tough, I agreed to do a film co-starring Henry Winkler, fresh from his Fonzie success.
Because of my work in Stay Hungry and then Sybil, coupled with the fact that I was now starring opposite the very popular Mr. Winkler and dating America’s current heartthrob, I was informed that a new magazine wanted to do a cover story on me. It seemed like something I should do, like an important part of my transformation. But how would I tell Burt and how would he react to the fact that I’d agreed to do an interview with People magazine? I worried and stewed, let days go by, phone call after phone call, not wanting to face his wrath, and when I look at the childish angst written in my journal, I wonder what on earth the fuss was all about. On my part. On his. I know that he always worried about the press, felt that they were out to get him, to uncover something that would be hurtful or destructive. And there had been times, on other films, when potentially disastrous stories had been printed, so maybe he was feeling the scars from that. Maybe he was afraid that I’d inadvertently say something that the journalist could twist, or perhaps he didn’t want to be linked with me any more than he already was. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want the focus, any focus, on me.
I wouldn’t rely on my memory to accurately recall his reaction, but in this case, I wrote it down. “Why?” he asked. “What about me? Aren’t you concerned about me? How could you do that? You just want your face on the cover of some damn magazine. Why didn’t you ask before you agreed to do it? I’m disappointed in you.” Burt didn’t call me a smart-ass like Jocko did, but even without that, I felt fifteen again. It was our first real fight, and the tiniest thimbleful of my anger seeped out, telling him that I thought it was my job to help promote the film, that I’d been on lots of covers and didn’t give a “darn” (I wasn’t allowed to swear) about being on another one… which wasn’t completely honest. The following day, I profusely apologized, and he accepted.
I did the People cover story dated April 25, 1977, and only now have I read the three snide pages, beginning with the title “The Flying Nun Grows Up: Sally Field Makes a Movie with The Fonz and Has a Fling with Burt. When Sally Field Wanted to Kick the Habit, Burt and Henry Were Waiting.” Maybe I should have listened to Burt.
Out of nowhere, and not long after both of our films had wrapped, Burt became possessed with the idea of directing William Inge’s Bus Stop, with the role that Marilyn Monroe had famously played in the movie to be performed by me. I was flattered at first, but when I realized that the play was to take place in a run-down, tin-roofed theater in Jupiter, Florida, on precisely the same date that Smokey and the Bandit was going to open, I thought perhaps it wasn’t the best time for either of us to be doing regional theater. He was outraged. How could I do this to him? I had agreed to do it. I couldn’t pull out now. Plus, he had asked my mother to play Grace, the waitress in the bus stop café, a lovely role. It was either incredibly generous or a way to ensure that I truly couldn’t walk away from the production. And even though, in the back of my mind, I suspected that Burt had some ulterior motive behind this remote production, I didn’t walk away but flung myself at it, conjuring up some version of Cherie, the sexy small-time chanteuse, while all the time squelching the piece of me that kept saying I needed to be somewhere else, availing myself of the energy that was finally coming my way.
Before the play even opened, Burt—who was the director—departed to promote our film, while I stayed behind, performing in a theater containing about seventy-five seats. It was located so close to the railroad tracks we had to incorporate the passing train into each performance—which meant the entire cast turned toward the upstage window as if watching the thunderous thing roll past. But when a Florida rainstorm would unleash itself onto the old tin roof, vibrating the tiny box of a theater with pounding noise, we had to move onto the apron of the stage and scream dialogue directly at the audience. The hardest thing was to keep from laughing, and in that we weren’t always successful.
Baa and I in Jupiter, Florida, where we were performing in Bus Stop.
In retrospect, I realize what a wonderful time that actually was. Since the show ran early in the summer, Peter and Eli were out of school and could come with us. As soon as Burt was gone, the kids chose their spots. Peter wanted to stay in the small wharf-like actors’ commune with Baa and Princess, who had joined us, but every night Eli was mine. After the curtain went down—even though there was no curtain—he would nestle next to me in Burt’s old MG while I maneuvered the pitch-black half-hour drive back to the beach condo, the newest Reynolds acquisition. Throughout every performance Peter would sit backstage, memorizing all the dialogue as he listened to it float through the wings, while Eli waited impatiently to have his mother all to himself.
Early in ’77, it was announced that the Emmys would be canceled that year due to an ongoing dispute between the New York and Hollywood chapters of the National Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. A new ceremony, the Television Critics Circle Awards, was formed to take its place and Sybil was nominated for five awards: best miniseries, best direction, best screenplay, and two nominations for best actress in a leading role: Joanne and me. But the Television Critics Circle Awards were clearly not the Emmys, and as the date for the ceremony approached everyone seemed to question what the hell they actually were. Even so, my agent wanted me to go, Jackie and Stewart wanted me to go—especially since Joanne had refused to attend any awards ceremony, ever. Burt thought the whole thing seemed rather bogus, not to mention rinky-dink, but was willing to go if that’s what I wanted. It was decided. I would go to the first Television Critics Circle Awards ceremony with Mr. Reynolds on my arm, or rather I would be on his.
In those days, an awards ceremony was not treated as if it were the American equivalent of a coronation, the way it is today. But coronation or not, I had no idea how to do any of it. The only awards show I had attended before that, I’d been bedecked in pink taffeta and launched into the audience, two things I wasn’t anxious to do again. This time I purchased a spaghetti-strap dress from I. Magnin department store and sat on the floor of Burt’s enormous bathroom on the day of the ceremony, shortening the floor-length hem while hot rollers cooled in my hair. When at last I slipped into my wine-colored jersey gown, Burt looked at me and with great authority announced that I was too pale. Immediately, he pulled out his personal stash of pancake makeup and rummaged around until he found the half-used cake of Max Factor’s Dark Egyptian—the same stuff that had been s
lathered on me by an alcohol-smelling body makeup lady using a mildewed sponge in the wee hours of the morning during Gidget. Not only does it itch like crazy when it dries, it also rubs off on everything, and Dark Egyptian is not exactly a subtle shade. But when I think of that moment, standing nervously before a wall of mirrors as Burt carefully painted my exposed body, I realize that I’d take his Earl Scheib job over the finest hair and makeup artist anytime. True, I ended up looking like Sacagawea with very curly hair, but it was what he had to give. And it makes me smile.
That had been a remarkable year on network television. Both Alex Haley’s profoundly important miniseries, Roots, and the made-for-television movie Eleanor and Franklin: The White House Years, which the wonderful Dan Petrie had also directed, were nominated for awards. Needless to say, Sybil didn’t win a Television Critics Circle Award in any category. But it didn’t matter. The whole evening I was so worried about Burt’s health, about the frenzy we had caused at being seen together, and about the unmistakable smudge I was leaving on everyone, I didn’t have much room left to feel disappointed.
Then, three months later, the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences reinstated its award season, and Sybil received the same nominations, which meant this time I was nominated for an Emmy. Unlike Joanne, I didn’t have enough miles in the saddle yet to understand that winning an award is not the truest indication that your work is excellent. I longed to feel that I’d actually conquered something, something that perhaps only I could see, and deeply wanted to be included, to go to the Emmys as a nominee. But my gift card from Burt had already been used up, and when the ceremony rolled around, I was in Santa Barbara, where he was both directing and starring in The End, a film in which I’d been hired to play a small role. For the rest of the shoot, weeks and weeks, I’d stay in order to take care of Mr. Reynolds. As the evening of the ceremony approached, everyone started calling, pleading with me to break away for a few hours, insisting that the studio would send a car, wardrobe would find a dress, and Stewart would be waiting to accompany me. “Go if you want, but be prepared to lose again” were Burt’s words, or maybe the only ones I heard. But what was I looking for? Permission? With only the slightest hint of disapproval from Burt, I felt ashamed of my desire to be accomplished, to be successful, to be recognized, embarrassed that I wanted to attend this award show, to feel that I was no longer a joke in the industry. And if, for a moment, I started to lean in the direction of accepting the studio’s offer, he’d sit on the edge of the bed, gulping air, jabbing his fingers into his chest. I felt stuck in an old pattern: To be loved I had to stop being me. Matter of fact, I had to stop being anyone.
In my journals, I’d constantly write that I wanted to run away, to escape from some hidden trap. But at the same time, I was bending myself into a pleasing shape, a soothing, compliant cup of warm elixir that Burt was then lured into drinking over and over, until he became addicted to the seemingly unconditional love I was offering. And perhaps in that way I was his trap. Once he was undeniably addicted, needing a fix of me, I’d be gone. He would never know what had hit him or how to get another supply. My anger was much more lethal than could easily be seen. Even by me.
I didn’t go to the 1977 Emmy Awards show. And just to make this story even more reminiscent of “The Little Match Girl”—who used her last match for warmth before freezing to death in the frigid night—I ended up watching the show in the rented condo, sitting alone on a stiff living room sofa with the sound turned down so as not to disturb the man who perhaps didn’t know, or maybe didn’t care, how much it meant to me. And as I sat there—matchless in the snow—I heard my name announced.
I’d won the Emmy for Sybil.
19
Norma
HOOPER WAS MY third film with Burt, each role getting smaller and less interesting just as I was getting smaller and less interesting. But honestly, I hadn’t been turning down other projects to play these cookie-cutter characters. Nothing else came my way and I couldn’t even find a project to fight for. I was hanging on, grateful to be earning enough to exist.
Tuscaloosa, Alabama, was the location this time, though for what reason I don’t know, because the Hal Needham–directed film had nothing to do with Alabama and all to do with the rollicking, action-packed life of stuntmen, a kind of homage to the dangers of stunt work. Not only was one of the main characters (played by Brian Keith) named Jocko, but my stepfather—who was now living with his wife in a small apartment in Sherman Oaks—was also given a small role, making the whole thing utterly surreal. And in the midst of this, of spending most of every day shopping for Burt’s dinner, or running his errands, I received word that Marty Ritt wanted to meet with me. Considered to be one of the most important voices in the industry, Marty was responsible for films like Hud, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, The Great White Hope, The Front, and Sounder. He had been a member of New York’s Group Theatre—which eventually became the Actors Studio—and was a revered actor’s director.
Since I was primarily there to take care of their star, the Hooper production didn’t need me for a while. So without looking for Burt’s approval, I agreed to fly home the following morning, informing Burt of my decision without hesitation. He nodded, saying Ritt was a great director, then tossed the subject aside only to pick it up later in the evening when he began coaching me on how to behave in the meeting, treating me as if I were a ten-year-old on my first excursion away from home. I listened to him talk, trying to see his focus as loving, but kept reminding myself that once I was out of his sight, I’d be free. He ended the lecture by criticizing me for running lickety-split back to L.A. without reading the script first or knowing exactly what the meeting was about.
But lickety-split I did run, with zero idea as to what the meeting was about. And not giving a rat’s ass. Not only that, but since my meeting was set for three o’clock at 20th Century Fox and my flight didn’t get in until twelve thirty, I wouldn’t have time to read the screenplay that waited for me at home. Here comes the cavalry: My mother read it for me. She was standing at the front door when the car dropped me off, watching for my arrival as if we’d planned it that way, and as we hugged in a quick greeting she patted my back, saying, “I’ll tell you about it as you get dressed. We can do this.”
While I started yanking things from my closet, trying to decide what on earth to wear, she followed me around, slowly recounting the screenplay while enduring my frantic need for more character details, telling her I didn’t care about her opinion of the story, or whether she would want to see the film, I needed details. Eventually, we both agreed that I couldn’t fake a character I knew nothing about, and that I should go as a blank slate—which should have been easy after living in the shadowland for so long. I dressed all in beige with my long hair pulled back at the base of my neck.
Though I wasn’t late, Marty was waiting for me with his office door wide open, saying nothing as he watched his secretary greet me in the waiting area before ushering me into the room where he stood. Wordlessly, Marty gestured to a straight-backed chair, then moved behind his desk, getting right to the point. “Have you read the script?”
“No,” I replied flatly, though the thought flashed through my head to lie.
“It’s very strong,” he said, then sat quietly as if thinking. We didn’t chat so he could determine if I was right for the role, there were no pages he wanted to hear me read, he merely sat in his polyester jumpsuit, wearing big, smudge-covered glasses, and watched me. And even though his focus never wavered, I didn’t feel uncomfortable, there weren’t awkward moments of being judged. He simply looked directly into my eyes, asking nothing of me but to be as unguarded as he was. When he finally spoke, he said, “You were quite good in Sybil… very good.”
“Thank you,” I answered, without a hint of humility.
He then asked me a question I’d never expected. “Are you serious about your work?”
Feeling how deeply I meant it, I answered, “Yes.”
“T
he studio doesn’t want you. You’re not a name to them, not a name they want. Several other actresses, who are names to them, were offered the film. I think they would have done a fine job, but for whatever reason, they all passed and things have a way of ultimately working out as they should. I want you to do it and if you want the role, I’ll fight for you… and I’ll win. Read the script, then let me know.”
In my beige dress, with my beige flats planted squarely on the ground, I answered as calmly as I could, “Even before I read it, I know. I want this.”
That night while sitting propped up in bed, Eli asleep on one side, Peter on the other, I read Norma Rae. I read it again on the airplane heading back to location the next morning, this time with my hands shaking as they had when I read Sybil. I wasn’t anyone’s vision of the uneducated, promiscuous southern mill worker who stumbles into becoming a hero. I wasn’t even Marty’s. But he had wanted to meet me, over the studio’s objections, because he thought I could act. And as we sat together in his office, he saw something in me that I didn’t know I was showing, that I couldn’t have planned because I didn’t know I had it within me to call on. Marty saw the place where Norma and I met, where we were the same. Two days later in the rented Tuscaloosa house, I answered the phone to hear Marty’s voice: “Sally, the part is yours.”
I wouldn’t have asked Burt to read the screenplay, but he wanted to, acting as though he were doing me a favor. When he finished, he threw it across the room at me, saying it was a piece of shit, and in an outraged sneer accused me of simply wanting to play a whore. And wham, without thinking I found myself speaking up for Norma and ultimately for Sally, and the part of me that I valued most.