In Pieces

by Sally Field

  “First of all, she is not a whore. She’s a wonderful, complicated character. And sure, I’d play a whore. Why not?”

  “Well, no lady of mine is gonna play a whore.”

  “I’m an actor, Burt. I’m not a whore. I’m not Norma or Sybil or Gidget or whomever I’m supposed to be playing. I’m an actor.”

  “Oh… so now you’re an actor. That’s all that matters now, right? Ha… You’re letting your ambition get the better of you.”

  “My ambition is the better of me and you can’t touch it.” I felt that I was inside my dream again, standing with my arms around the children, protecting them from being destroyed by something unseen at the top of the stairs. The children were me, all of me, and the love I had for a craft that had allowed me to hear them. I will not be conquered. With that, something shifted, and the debate inside my head that had started the moment I met Burt ended.

  Even in 1978, the unionization of southern textile mills faced substantial opposition from management, who didn’t exactly want this film to be made. The story was based on Crystal Lee Sutton, a heroic union organizer and advocate who in the early 1970s bravely stood up against the J. P. Stevens mills for the mistreatment of their workers. But luckily, the Opelika Cotton Mill, located in Opelika, Alabama, was a family-run, recently organized plant that had been operating since 1901 and was struggling against the larger, more lucrative companies. Which meant it was the only working mill willing to give the production permission to shoot in and around their factory. Of course, the large compensation check didn’t hurt. So, with a welcome letter from Governor George Wallace, the three-month location for Norma Rae was set for Alabama—the state where my grandmother was born and the place where my friendship with the man whose words I still hear in my head began.

  Born in New York City in 1914, the son of Jewish immigrants, Marty attended Elon College in North Carolina, which forever imprinted on him the stark contrast between his Bronx childhood and the Depression-era south. He then attended St. John’s University but quickly gravitated to the theater, first as an actor, then as a director. Work was hard to find during those Depression years, but he was able to get employment with Roosevelt’s WPA Federal Theatre Project as a playwright. And though he always said he had never been a member of the Communist Party, he was certainly influenced by the radical left and proudly called himself a true “lefty.” In 1952, Marty was working as an actor and director plus producing television programs when he was mentioned in an anti-communist newsletter called Counterattack, published by American Business Consultants, a group formed by three former FBI agents. Though he was never asked to testify, Marty refused to cooperate in any way with the House Un-American Activities Committee and was ultimately blacklisted by the entertainment industry when he was charged with donating money to Communist China. For five years, he supported himself, his wife, and several other blacklisted friends by teaching at the Actors Studio and handicapping horses. He understood the Norma Raes of the world. He was one.

  Two weeks of rehearsal time, on location, is what Marty always insisted upon and I’ve never worked with a director who used that time more productively. Before moving out to the real locations, with a handful of scenes that he thought were essential to understanding both the characters and the relationships they had with each other, we spent three days in a conference room located in the same building as the production offices, a short drive from the mill. Three days of nothing but asking questions and exploring the text with pencil in hand, beginning on that first day with the inevitable read-through.

  The majority of the cast were present, starting with instantly likeable, easy, and funny Ron Leibman, set to play Reuben—the Jewish New York union organizer. The brilliant Pat Hingle was to be Norma’s father, Barbara Baxley her mother, and Gail Strickland was cast as her best friend. The only major character not there was Norma’s husband, being played by Beau Bridges (Jeff’s older brother), who was finishing another film and wouldn’t be arriving until the second week of production. Just as everyone was settling around the table, Marty called me to the back of the room along with Gail, whom I had instantly bonded with. As the two of us stood in the corner wondering why we’d been summoned, Marty looked directly at Gail and said, “You know you too could have played Norma, you’re a strong actor. But I gave this one to Sally. Your time will come.” I was so struck by that. Not only was it a kind and generous thing to do, but it was also incredibly insightful. He didn’t know either of us at that point, and he needed a believable friendship to be instantly created on-screen, one in which neither of us was more or less important than the other. He was helping us to pave that road. Plus, he understood actors, understood how much they want to be given the opportunity to do complicated, interesting work. I wanted it. Gail wanted it.

  During that first week, I hardly looked at my new director. He was matter-of-fact and perfunctory, as though he didn’t want to waste precious time being charming, so he wasn’t. Even in the second week, I looked in his eyes only when he stood in front of me, quietly urging me to go further with what I was doing or suggesting I add a new ingredient, always speaking the kind of acting language I understood. And as I began to find and expand Norma, from the length of her stride, to the twang of her accent, to the heat-induced slowing of her rhythm, I felt Marty’s trust in me expand, approving my choices, appreciating my skill. But Norma was mine, and though he never tried to manipulate or invade the character with some preconceived vision of his own, Marty knew how to take what I was presenting and hone it. He understood the use of activity and the power of stillness, how to complicate and simplify a performance at the same time. He warned actors to be aware of when they nodded their heads and said, “Yes” at the same time, underlining with their bodies what was coming out of their mouths. Marty called it “capitulating to the moment,” one of the many Martyisms that I began to use constantly. “Aggressively illiterate” was another Martyism, this one having little to do with acting and a whole lot to do with the Republicans.

  When we began to shoot, I could feel Marty’s excitement at the prospect of challenging me, not like Jocko had done with his aluminum pole of humiliation, but with the sheer joy of watching me explore, of seeing me flat-out fling myself toward his suggestions, showing him that I could keep all those balls in the air while daring him to throw me another. It was as if we were playing a game of competing skills and my desire to please him was not about diminishing myself, but about finding how far I could stretch my wings.

  On the set working with Marty while fabulous Ron Leibman watches.

  But sweetness and light Marty was not, often becoming a gruff curmudgeon, impatient with actors who were unable to change their performance or even a line reading to adapt to what he wanted, and downright sharp with an actor who was late or lazy or indulgent. If an actor or a crewmember—including the cinematographer—ever stopped or cut the scene themselves, he’d go apeshit. It didn’t matter if you forgot your words or fell in a ditch or swallowed your tongue, you kept going. And never would he stand for anyone instructing the actors other than the director. If another actor casually commented on or tried to correct another’s performance, watch out. The performances belonged to the director and the actor hired to play the role, period. Anyone wanting to make a comment had to go through Marty, and even then, it might not be welcomed. When I once heard his wife, Adele, quietly try to express an opinion, he replied with a wry grin, “Well, when you direct your film, I suggest you try that.”

  That’s not to say that he didn’t value everyone’s specific participation. He never took a “film by” credit, saying that when he had written, photographed, edited, and acted in it, playing all the roles, then it would be a Marty Ritt film. Our husband and wife screenwriters, the brilliant Harriet (Hank) Frank Jr. and Irving Ravetch (who had also written Hud), were on the set every day, constantly conferring with Marty on the sidelines, and yet I never knew what their comments were—although as time went on, I was able to decipher a Ravetch
note from a Ritt.

  Strict as Marty sometimes seemed, his rules never felt like an invasion but a protection, a safe space created for the actors to explore. And in that space, he invited and encouraged any notion an actor could come up with. But at the same time, he was never unsure or wishy-washy. If he didn’t like what an actor was doing, that actor sure as hell knew it. He was a no-nonsense man who wore a one-piece jumpsuit—often food-stained—and never adhered to anyone’s book of etiquette. He bluntly said what was on his mind, didn’t chitchat, coddle, or patronize. If you came to him with a whining complaint he’d say, “I’ll run you a benefit.” Which basically meant, get on with it. He was direct and succinct, but always generous with his intelligence, his passion, his delicious sense of humor, and his wisdom. He said what he meant and meant what he said.

  When we were about three weeks into our nine-week shoot, moving along so swiftly we tried to slow down for fear the studio wouldn’t take us seriously, Marty knocked on the door of my motor home, opened it, and stepped inside without waiting to hear my response. I sat frozen on the sofa, my needlepoint in midair as he plopped down on the swivel chair across from me. Because he’d never been in my camper before, I worried that I’d done something wrong—which is no big surprise—but when he acted as though he’d just wandered in, like he had nothing else to do, I suddenly felt shy. What would I say to him? We’d been together socially several times when Adele had gatherings in their bungalow next to mine, small dinner parties that usually included other members of the cast and crew, and once it had been only the three of us. But Marty and I had never been alone together.

  As he looked out the window, watching the smattering of crew weaving around the pine trees, he began talking about the spinning room and the dinosaur-like machines that several of us had learned to operate. He laughingly told me that one of the actors had to walk outside because the old wooden floor’s swaying vibrations had made them seasick and asked me why I hadn’t needed a break. After I told him I was too busy to think about it, and he refused to tell me which actor it was, we sat in an easy silence. Then he stood, looked at his watch, and with a “time to mosey back to the set” attitude, stepped down into the well of the door and grabbed hold of the handle. He paused for a moment, then turning to look at me said, “I want you to know, Sal… you’re first-rate. Just wanted to tell you.” With that he left the trailer, closing the door behind him. No amount of applause, praise, or accolades that I might receive in my lifetime will ever mean more to me than those few words from Marty Ritt.

  Every day was filled with focus and challenge, with calling on skills I didn’t know I owned because I’d never had the opportunity to use them. And in the evenings, I’d enter my rented condo, still exhilarated with accomplishment, only to feel how far away my children were, in more ways than one. When I’d make my nightly call, hoping that one or the other would deign to talk to me, would consent to a few mindless seconds of chatter, it was usually Peter taking the phone, not because he needed to hear my voice but because he knew I needed to hear his. Afterward, Baa would reassure me that they were fine, repeating over and over that they missed me but they were honestly just fine. And I’d cross another day off the calendar I’d hung on the wall, feeling torn and grateful for my mother’s presence. But when they stayed with their father for a few days or a week, I’d lose all contact with them, which made me feel a whole lot of things, grateful not being one of them.

  Steve was a devoted, caring father, but his life seemed even more chaotic than mine. He had found a way to acquire two tattered houses next to each other, then created his version of a freewheeling hippie compound in the middle of Sherman Oaks. Whenever the boys spent time with him they’d return looking like two starving refugees, their dirty arms and legs covered in fresh scrapes or poison ivy or mysterious bug bites, Peter looking hollow-eyed with his asthma in full swing. I’d hear Steve’s anger coming out of the mouth of one son, see his attitude on another, letting me know that they thought ambition and careers were for fools, that their father lived in the real world and that mine, the superficial world of show business, was fake. And even though that rhetoric tapered off after a bath and a hot meal, I selfishly felt relieved knowing that when I was away, my children spent the majority of their time with their grandmother and not with their father.

  But halfway through Norma’s shooting schedule, Baa was going to be traveling to Switzerland for three weeks with Ricky and Jimmie, who now had two children of their own. My brother was still working at Caltech with the Nobel Prize–winning theoretical physicist Richard Feynman. They had published several important physics papers together, and because of this, Ricky had been invited to CERN for six weeks. This physics facility for nuclear research would soon become the most important international scientific establishment in the world, home of the proton-colliding LHC (Large Hadron Collider), which is a massive underground ring, twenty-seven miles in diameter, between France and Switzerland. It was at CERN, on July 4, 2012, that my brother, along with hundreds of other scientists, announced the discovery of the Higgs boson, or the “God particle.” But in the summer of 1978, Ricky was making his first trip there and had invited Baa to join him. That meant that I would lose the help of my mother. Once again, it was my sister who jumped to the rescue.

  Princess agreed to bring the boys to me in Alabama for two weeks, then take them back to stay with their father for a week, until Baa’s return. When I look back at that time, it makes me think that perhaps this was the beginning for my sister, the first step toward discovering the career in which she could truly excel. On film after film, as my movie career continued, Princess would join me, first as my sister, then my assistant, and then, all on her own and with bone-wearying hard work, becoming an assistant director. Accomplished and well respected, over the next ten years she would create the shooting schedules and run the sets on countless movies, big and small. Then in 1991, when her daughter, Maggie, was born, she moved into episodic television, staying close to home, always relying on Baa, just as I had, to take care of her baby while she worked. But during that June, she was the nanny, the boys’ aunt, and my best friend.

  The two of us on a movie set in the early eighties.

  One day, toward the end of their time with me, Peter and I were sitting in the camper looking out the front window, watching everyone slowly returning to the set after their half-hour catered lunch under the pines. Princess was standing outside beside a tree, out of harm’s way as the dangerous Eli rode his rented bike around in circles, dodging crewmembers, who were busy dodging him. With his knees tucked up under his chin, Peter sat adjusting and readjusting the big foam driver’s seat, turning first one way, then the other, while asking me a nonstop stream of questions: Who is Norma Rae? Why does she work in a mill? What is a union? Always wanting to know the story and who I was in it. (No surprise he became a novelist and screenwriter.) I watched his antsy behavior from my seat on the passenger side, carefully answering everything he asked, until slowly Peter began to cry, deep inconsolable sobs. When I asked him why, what had made him so sad, he said, “It’s Norma’s life, just that, Mom. I feel so bad for her.” But as I moved to sit on the floor next to him, patting his back, I had an inkling that it wasn’t Norma who had affected him so sharply. The following day he would be traveling back to Los Angeles and Sherman Oaks, back to his father, and it was a sadness that we both felt. He had begged to stay with me, begged and begged like only an eight-year-old can. If his grandmother had been the one waiting for him, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt so powerfully alone. Perhaps I wouldn’t have felt as though I were bleeding internally, making a kind of Sophie’s Choice decision. My work or my children. And as I look back, from so many years away, I want to scream at my thirty-one-year-old self. Could I not have kept Pete with me, a boy who only wanted to sit and memorize the dialogue, and let Princess take five-year-old Eli back to Steve? It would have split my focus, but it would have eased his heart and mine. Can you not have a do-over? Ever?
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  Eli and Peter on the set with me. The supportive local folks standing in the background were extras.

  The day before Norma wrapped, Burt arrived at our Opelika location, driving up to my condo in a Cadillac convertible and a cloud of red Alabama dust. For the first time, he was coming to me, visiting my set, where I was working and he was not. It was late afternoon after a day of filming, and when he stepped inside my location home he held me to his chest and I could feel his heart jumping around frantically, just as mine had done when we first met. Awkwardly, he presented me with a little white box tied with a red velvet ribbon, and it was hard not to notice that his hands were trembling. But when I opened it to find a diamond ring, not huge but not me, he didn’t speak and I didn’t know what to say other than thank you, awkwardly. For the rest of the evening, something unsaid hung in the air, something that neither of us wanted to pluck out and examine.

  We had only one scene to shoot on that last day and it’s one of my favorite moments in the film. In it, Norma returns home late at night after Reuben has bailed her out of jail. With quiet purpose, she strides through her tiny house and, one by one, wakes her three children, then sits on the worn love seat with them tightly tucked around her. Unemotionally, she gives each of them a picture of their different fathers then tells them the men’s names, who they were, and whether she had been married to them or not. She looks into the sleepy faces of her children and says, “This is who I am. I want you to know that.”

  Since it was a bright Alabama summer day and the sequence took place at night, large sheets of duvetyn (dense, feltlike black fabric) had been placed over the windows and doors, turning the shoe box of a house into a cave filled with movie lights—airless and stifling. The scene was shot simply, with the cinematographer, John Alonzo, following me handheld as I moved from room to room, collecting Norma’s sleeping children, then into the front room to flatly explain their existence. And as I held my body in Norma’s world, sweat rolling down my neck and between my breasts, I had the flicker of a thought: Burt was going to be arriving on set soon, maybe he was already waiting for me in my motor home. I could feel a tug on my mind, some part of me preparing to leave myself, leave what I wanted behind, to give over, to serve someone else’s needs. This sliver of a moment is so clear in my mind. I felt Norma’s strength, just as she was beginning to feel it herself. It was as if Norma gathered that fragile piece of me in her arms with the rest of her children, set me on the sofa, and said to me, I want you to hear it from me. This is who I am, without sentiment, apology, or appeasement.