Mom must have felt confident knowing that Polly was watching over me, and was emboldened to drink even more. Often, at night, Mom would stay behind in the makeshift bar the crew had put together, and Polly would bring me back to our bure at bedtime. For this movie Polly acted as more of a companion and a caretaker than a teacher because it was summer vacation. She really kept an eye on me, occupied my time—which helped me not obsess about Mom’s drinking—and even made sure the director did not try to talk me into doing my own nude scenes behind my mother’s back.
Mom had insisted on a body double, and everybody was made aware of this fact. For the full-nudity scenes I would have a double, but for the seminude ones I would be somehow covered. I wore an extremely long wig, made from real hair, and it was long enough to cover my breasts. Even though my boobs were nonexistent, by the age of fifteen I had become self-conscious. The hair was long enough to cover them, but because of the wind, we had to secure the pieces to my skin with toupee tape. I called it tuppy tape, and every day when I took it off I’d stretch each strip as far as it would go. Toupee tape has a fun elasticity, and this activity became a tradition, bordering on an OCD tick for me. I’d have to stretch every strip or I got superstitious. I developed various mini-habits or neatening actions over the years and realize now that they were reactions to the frustrations and helplessness I felt toward Mom’s drinking.
After all the controversy surrounding Pretty Baby, I am sure that Mom was even more adamant about not having her daughter be nude. Mom loved reiterating this fact to the press. Even though the producers hated the press knowing I had a double, because they said it threatened the integrity of the film, Mom loved telling the world. She felt it proved to people that she had my best interests at heart. I always found it fascinating that a Hollywood producer’s idea of “protecting the integrity of a film” involved having a minor do her own nude scenes.
The company had trouble finding a suitable body double, so they ended up using thirty-year-old diver Valerie Taylor, who, with her husband, Ron, was responsible for filming the underwater shots. The couple had filmed all the water scenes for the movie The Day of the Dolphin and could hold their breath calmly and for minutes at a time. The first time Valerie dove into the water wearing my long, natural wig, the hair almost instantly matted up in a big mess. She came out of the water with a matted clump of hair worthy of Rastafarian status, and the shot had to be postponed. The wig, which came from England, was quite thick and cost thousands of dollars, and we had only one. Until we found another identical wig from England, we couldn’t film any of my scenes. They ended up having to get a synthetic wig for all the underwater shots. Mom loved highlighting how ignorant these people were not to know a natural-hair wig should not get soaked.
• • •
As filming continued, Chris and I went through a myriad of phases in our friendship. It began with my resenting the pressure I felt from the director to actually fall in love; then we actually had short crushes on each other; then he annoyed me and I’d not talk to him for a while except on film; then we’d forget all about the fight and act like friends again. Maybe it was love! We were more like siblings, and midway through the filming I remember Chris even moving into our bure.
Mom insinuated that she saw something she thought inappropriate, and thought it best if he stayed closer to us because nobody would mess with him if she were around.
Then I had to face the relationship between the director and his tanned, blond boy. I am not saying it was romantic, but the director was seemingly infatuated. The boy was, of course, Chris, and it made me crazy. I was less jealous than I was frustrated by how obviously enamored the director was with this Adonis. I felt constantly disregarded. No matter what I did, or what my mom said to me to make her feel better, I hated it. The attention remained on Chris. Chris would be doing a take and the director would marvel at how extraordinary his talent was.
He’d say, “You, Brooke, you’re the pro, but look at him; he’s a natural!”
I could feel my jaw clenching and the jealousy mounting. I’d complain to my mom, saying he was a rookie and thought he knew everything and the director just played into this behavior. She’d tell me to forget it, adding that the director was probably in love with the kid. Mom often made quick judgments about things like this. She would often say somebody was probably jealous of me or that that director “had a thing for” that actor or actress. She wanted to be the one who saw everything and knew everything. She was confident that I would believe her wholeheartedly.
At one point the tension got so bad for me that I began disliking how Chris even held his hands. I became competitive with him. I wanted the director to approve of my work as much if not more than he approved of Chris’s. It was obvious that I was not going to succeed in this way. I found little ways to bug him and prove I was better than he was. I’d follow him around on set and sing the lyrics to Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home.”
“So you think you’re a Romeo, playin’ a part in a picture show. . . .”
While filming water scenes, I tried to hold my breath longer underwater than he did and find more black coral than he did. I declared that I could drink more kava than he could and crack open a coconut faster. Truth be told, though, he could swim better and climb coconut trees faster than I could. I memorized my lines faster and I would correct him on his own if he messed up. I was basically being a brat. It never got ugly, thank God, and, over time, I got over needing constant approval from the director. Our angel cinematographer also noticed my needs and chose specific and necessary times to praise me.
Chris and I were never romantic, and because most of the intimate scenes in the film were between Chris and my body double, our relationship stayed platonic. They had to be nude together, but all I had to do was kiss him a few times.
I find it interesting that, once again, I was able to uphold a certain sense of innocence in what had been considered a provocative environment. My mom was with me on the island, but I was older than I was in Pretty Baby and I was rather self-assured. People really loved my mother on this movie. She was not viewed as a threat as if she had been by Polly Platt, and we were in a very contained space. She may have unsettled Randal by her mere attitude and proximity, but for the most part they all got along. There was a raw quality to this movie. We were all isolated together and in it for the long haul. It was safe and we were all connected and we were a team. Because people genuinely embraced her, I think she put up fewer defenses. There was something about the Aussies. They just knew how to meet people where they were, without judgment but with humor and a sense of adventure. Because they overlooked Mom’s deeper insecurities, they were a perfect group for both of us.
Plus, the Aussies knew how to party, so my mom fit right in. Even on this location, Mom was able to find ways to keep busy. She’d often try to make calls to the mainland or help organize parties and themed events for the cast and crew.
God knows Mom loved a party and enjoyed being a part of any event where drinking was practically a prerequisite. A few times she took a seaplane to the mainland and delivered mail or brought back film, magazines, and even pizzas. Although the pizza delivery came to a quick halt when we turned over a slice only to find rat droppings embedded in the dough!
By this time Mom was drinking as if she had never stopped. It was like it had all been a dream. It was such a shame, but there was so much alcohol at base camp and around this crew that it was evidently just irresistible to her. Excessive consumption was not out of the norm for this lot, and it was very accepted. It’s amazing I never started then. I hated that Mom got drunk with the crew as much as she did, and I could not believe that after all the angst we went through for her treatment, it felt as if nothing had changed. Mom had started back up again as easily as she had gotten into that car on the curb waiting to take her to the airport to go to a facility. I tried to just remove myself emotionally and, when I could, phy
sically.
• • •
But by the end of August, I had hit a limit with island life. As much as I had submersed myself in that sandy oasis, I was ready to go home. Mom was equally ready to leave. She never went in the sun and I don’t remember her ever even going in the water. We were both ready for some of the tastes and comforts of home. We had become an incredibly tight-knit team, who experienced and suffered a great deal with one another, but I was homesick for New York. Shooting this movie had had an impact on all of us based purely on the long hours and sometimes intensely tough weather and living conditions, and we were all exhausted. We had lived through sicknesses, injuries, breakups, and even deaths of loved ones during filming. I still have scars lining my Achilles tendon from cuts that had ulcerated from swimming in water near a coral reef. It had been an intense, wonderful, and sometimes surreal experience, but it eventually got to all of us. Being away from home and from modern conveniences took its own toll, and we all needed an extended break from the island and from each other.
The first time I actually wrapped production, we were all packed and had taken off for and landed on the mainland of Suva. Mom and I went to a hotel to rest and wait the five hours necessary before catching our flight back to the States. After about an hour, we were contacted at the hotel and informed that some of the film had been damaged, and I was needed for an additional two weeks of filming. My heart sank. I cried when I realized I had to wait two more weeks before returning home. Cutting my hair all off would have had no impact on this movie because I wore a wig, so I felt even more helpless.
I’ll never forget the real last day, when we were finally able to leave. We were doing one last scene on the beach. Before it was over, the seaplane arrived. It coasted to the dock and waited. I remember looking at it and thinking that no matter what happens, the moment I start walking on that dock, I am not stopping. I told Mom I didn’t care if the film blew up; I was going home. She concurred.
There was a part of me that also did not ever want to leave Nanuya Levu. Not because it had been paradise, but because on this island it felt easier to keep my mother alive. Losing Mom was a constant fear of mine, but these four months the panic surrounding her possible death had waned slightly.
We took off for the mainland, and as I saw our island getting smaller and smaller, my mind wandered to the impending future of my mom’s drinking. Dread began creeping back into my stomach. Without the containment of the island and the protection of the crew, I would be alone with her alcoholism yet again. Mom and I had been in somewhat of an unrealistic bubble in the middle of nowhere, but once back in New York City she would be on the loose again. I would no longer easily know her whereabouts. The island and the crew and the tough schedule had provided me with a huge safety net, but now that this protective zone was receding, my heart began to grow heavy. Before long, I would be resuming my hypervigilance. Intervention and rehab had been a mere apparition. I was going back to square one in the battle to survive my mother’s disease.
We got to the mainland and would have to wait for the 2:00 A.M. connecting flight. We would have dinner at the hotel plus a few hours of rest. Then we’d fly back to the United States and it would begin to feel like it had all been a dream.
• • •
The Blue Lagoon had a huge premiere a year later, in June 1980, at the famous Cinerama Dome in Los Angeles. It was my first time at this theatre and it was quite exciting. The building seemed immense and I was blinded with light and by the sight of Chris’s and my face covering the entire side of the building. There was excitement and anticipation in the air. My stepsister, Diana, came out to be with me for the press junket and kept me laughing the entire time. This was something that Mom had negotiated into my contract. This was unprecedented—getting the studio to pay for a companion for me during a junket. But it kept me contented, so they couldn’t fight it. It was good for everyone.
Mom even had a friend flown in to the island to visit. I’m not sure if the studio paid for the ticket but she always negotiated multiple tickets so I could have a friend or Diana come to visit. Mom felt it important for me not to feel lonely or stressed by the press, who as we knew could be unkind. I needed a partner in crime. This was an unheard-of request, but I had no agents or publicists for the studio to pay for, so Mom could justify the expense. According to her, they were getting off easy. My mother and Diana were my entire entourage. Diana understood Mom’s battle with booze and she also loved and laughed with my mom. She was on our side.
I was so happy to have Diana there. Press junkets are pure torture. You go to a hotel and whole floors are invaded and occupied by different press outlets. The actors and director trade off from room to room and do back-to-back interviews of about five to seven minutes each. You could do forty-two interviews before lunch. It’s mind-numbing because of the repetition. I kept getting questions like “What was it like living on an island?” and “Were you and Chris Atkins really in love?” and “Did you do your own nudity?”
I could answer these questions in my sleep. In fact, Mom, Diana, and I had a running joke about how a journalist would not even have to ask one question and I could give them a complete interview. After surviving Pretty Baby’s press tour, I was a pro on nudity and romance and the rigor of filmmaking.
It got to the point that I started answering the questions before the journalist even finished the question. Finally my mom, who would watch my interviews, took me aside and reminded me to allow the interviewer to get the question out. We had a big laugh about that. On our lunch break in the hotel room, I posed as a journalist and Diana pretended to be me answering the questions. We thought it was hysterical. Chris played along, and he and Randal did their own version. We made an otherwise tedious necessity fun and silly.
We kept things interesting in other ways. Randal would quietly sing the words to the Robbie Dupree song “Steal Away” under his breath as we passed in the hallways on the way to the next “firing squad,” as I nicknamed the press. We were all so bored and tired and all wished we could just run out the door and escape. Having the spurts of laughter and my stepsister and mother doing whatever they could to keep me laughing made it all more enjoyable and helped me maintain perspective. I was also excited because Mom promised that once I had finished my obligations, I could go shopping. Mom would let me loose in the store and Diana and I would spend all my per diem. The combination of this, good restaurants, and hanging out wearing our hotel robes was enough to sustain me.
All I kept thinking during these press days was that the journalists were all going to slaughter me in this movie. It just seemed to me that after Pretty Baby, it was decided that I was worthy of attack. Mom would not be able to shield me as entirely as she had from the negativity of Pretty Baby, but at least that had been a European director and an incredible cast.
This was a cast of two, and I carried most of the burden of ensuring its success. I suppose I was more equipped to handle it by then, but I was slightly apprehensive. I knew enough by this point to be concerned but realized there was nothing I could do.
The movie made a huge splash and was a box-office hit, ultimately the ninth-highest-grossing film of 1980. The studio was over the moon, and I was once again a commodity they coveted. But strangely, I never paid much attention to how my movies did. In my mind, they were done, and I was thinking about my next job. If I had enjoyed making the movie, then it was a success in my eyes.
I’m also glad that I was unaware of the true power of ticket sales. I didn’t pore over the reviews this time, either, and because I sort of couldn’t be bothered, I remained somewhat protected from any negativity. There were mixed reviews for The Blue Lagoon, and Mom did not hide them from me as actively as she had with Pretty Baby. I also didn’t really ask to read them. I simply wanted to move on. I had done the movie and it was over. A year had passed. I was attending a new school and had basically moved past the experience. Plus, I did not want to hea
r bad critiques; I knew they would attack me and I knew my feelings would get hurt. For whatever reason, I subconsciously knew that it was probably healthier for me to be somewhat separated from the reviews.
Thinking about it now, though, I am a bit conflicted about the fact that I did not read reviews. Perhaps if I had read the reviews, I may have chosen to steer my career differently. Perhaps I could have made better choices or might have given it all up entirely. I will never know.
Once the press junket was over and we were back in New York for good, Mom and I fell into our familiar pattern. We kept busy: I studied, she drank, we went to the movies, she drank, I navigated her moods, and she drank.
I had hoped that a fresh start and a successful film would make everything easier. But the more in demand I became, the more complicated everything got. My mother reacted to the press by defending herself to journalists like Barbara Walters or by choosing to give random interviews to the press. Normally you don’t see the talent’s manager on TV, but she was my mom and the world ate it up. She wanted to prove she was still protecting me and that she was guiding my career in the best way possible. She loved that she was known as Brooke Shields’s mother. It gave her a deep and personal validation. We were making it in the world. I think a part of Mom loved all of the attention because it was shared with me but was sadly often not articulate enough to get her point across the way she hoped.
She was trying to keep us talked-about and to make sure I was adored. She wanted to secure enough money to ensure us a substantial and comfortable future—something she never had as a kid. Mom wanted to make the best lives she could for us. Whatever choices my mother made, positive or negative, they were what they were. She believed she was acting in my best interest always. And the cathexis I experienced rendered me immobile. It was so acute that I never questioned her judgment. Mom and I were symbiotically enmeshed and it would be years before I was able to see us as separate people.
There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me Page 15