My codependence was easily perpetuated because it felt familiar and I believed my mother knew the right way about everything. I was never given the space or the opportunity to make my own choices. I simply followed what she said and tried not to rock the boat. My priority was keeping my mother alive and that meant never leaving her. I believe I was primarily trying to protect my mother from herself and keep her from her own demise. It was an enormous distraction. I didn’t have the time to focus on reviews, the trajectory of my career, boyfriends, or much else. Dating seemed almost silly. Plus, boys rarely asked me out because I was famous, and even though I was mature for my age, I was hardly experienced. I really only concerned myself with my studies and with my mother’s well-being. I believed my mother held the key to my security in the world and my ticket to the future.
The main problem, though—aside from alcohol—was that Mom had no system of operations. She had no long-term plan except to gain financial security and keep my name out there. Her unconventional and often maddening approach to managing me solidified her lack of popularity within the entertainment business. She did not, however, seem to care or feel the need to adjust or justify her behavior. She also showed no signs of intending to ever ask for professional help. According to her, the system worked, and I lovingly agreed.
The Blue Lagoon remains the most successful movie I have ever made and the film with which I am the most identified. I’m serious when I say that a week rarely goes by in which somebody doesn’t mention this movie to me. Generations have passed, and now those who watched the movie as teenagers are playing it for their children. For many it was their introduction to sex. Today, sex is introduced in a much more provocative and graphic way. Comparatively, The Blue Lagoon is mild. I still probably won’t let my girls watch it. Too weird.
Chapter Nine
The Brooke Doll
Soon after I shot The Blue Lagoon, Mom bought a huge Tudor-style house in Englewood, New Jersey, right over the George Washington Bridge. The week before we moved into the house it was broken into and robbed. We suspected the interest in the stolen items stemmed from my being a recognizable name and the attention our move had gotten within the town. But The Blue Lagoon had not even been released yet and I was hardly famous in comparison to what I would soon become. Whatever the reason, a bunch of kids, conveniently led by the daughter of a local policeman, broke into the huge house and were caught walking out with rugs and other items.
The next day, Mom put the house back on the market, and since school had already started, we had little time to look for and move into a new home. I began an uncommon reverse commute from our New York City apartment to my new high school campus. Mom still had our black Jeep Renegade, and I loved the ride in the mornings, going against commuter traffic as the sun was rising.
Mom kept up the search and eventually found another big Tudor-style home in a town called Haworth.
When we permanently left the apartment on Seventy-Third Street after almost fifteen years of living there, I wasn’t sure whether I felt excited or apprehensive. It was probably a combination of both. I did love new starts and experiencing new lifestyles. But in the past, I had always been able to return to Manhattan. The drive to Haworth was only about forty-five minutes from the city, but it might as well have been a different country. I was not a Jersey girl. I was a native New Yorker through and through, and I felt my mom was the same. I knew that Mom always maintained her bond with New Jersey, but Newark was a far cry from the suburban town of Haworth and could not have been expected to quell her melancholy for her “homeland.”
I began attending the Dwight-Englewood School in 1979. It was a shock to my system. Not only was I a new kid from Manhattan in a new high school in New Jersey, but I was also suddenly taking classes with kids who had actually seen some of my movies. This was really the first time I was around peers who were aware of my celebrity. They were old enough to see movies like Tilt or Just You and Me, Kid and were very conscious of my fame.
To their credit, they were never unkind. I am sure that the school somehow made them aware that they should treat me just like a regular kid. It was a bit disconcerting, I’m sure, having a celebrity in your ninth-grade math class, but the kids seemed to be respectful of my space. They did so almost to a fault, however, because I ended up feeling set apart and lonesome. They were not being standoffish as much as reserved and slightly intimidated. Most of these kids had gone to the same grade school together and had become a tight-knit group that would take time to penetrate. The transition for me was going to require some effort.
My first term was pretty miserable and I was overwhelmed. The workload was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I had never seen so much homework and I had zero experience in navigating such a tough class schedule. Just navigating the vast campus to get to my classes on my own created a challenge. My grades were not great, I was living in isolated New Jersey, and I practically had no friends. I didn’t mind the lack of friends, quite honestly, because I was fraught, awkward, and uncomfortable, and I wanted to hide. I dreaded getting out of the car each morning. Whenever I got the chance, I’d cry to my mother from the pay phone outside the science building. Mom kept reassuring me that it would all get better and that I had to just stick to it. She guaranteed me that I would soon make friends. I just had to keep holding my head up high.
My mom and I were getting along fine, and although I was concerned about her drinking, I was more concerned about her driving while drunk. We did not drive a lot in New York City, so it had never really been an issue, but now we were in need of a car for everything, and that created a new set of potential problems. For now, however, I had little time to dwell on her as much because I had to focus on getting my high school experience under control. How could I become integrated into this new school? How could I make friends?
Mom decided that I should invite my class to some party to help break the ice. There used to be a restaurant/club called Wednesdays in midtown that turned into a roller-skating rink one night a week. The owners offered to throw me a roller-skating Halloween party. All I had to do was take some photos and be seen enjoying the club. Mom told the owner that my entire class must be invited.
I sent out invitations and was terrified nobody would come. But as I was taking pictures for a few photographers, I saw a group of kids I recognized walk through the door. Soon the whole class was there and we were all dressed in Halloween costumes, rolling around to the music. It was so much fun and it turned out to be a perfect icebreaker. I worried at first that maybe it felt like bribery and that I was buying the friendships. But it ended up being the social event that would show my peers that although I had lived an unusual life, I was, in fact, just a regular kid.
The best part about the whole thing was that the kids did not expect me to keep having parties and inviting them. They saw it as a bit of a job for me because I had to take photos with people and do interviews, and they realized that the party was in a way more for them and was in no way me showing off. From that night on, kids started slowly including me more and inviting me to study together or have sleepovers. I began to make friends all across the board. My closest friends were Lisa, Missy, Diane, and Gigi. All five of us remain friends to this day.
I tried to include my friends in my life whenever I could at photo shoots or events. Mom always made sure at least one of them accompanied me. When I worked with famous photographers like Francesco Scavullo or Bruce Weber, Mom always asked them to take a group shot of my friends and me. They always obliged, and my friends now have some pictures of themselves taken by some of the giants in art photography.
Mom loved joining my two worlds together. This was something I have never forgotten and have always appreciated. I kept inviting friends to events and parties. The events were actually work for me, so having a friend from my real life share it eased the burden. I also lived vicariously through their obvious enjoyment of the experiences. It was never the
whole class again, but my close group of friends would get put on the list at places like the Red Parrot, Xenon, and sometimes Studio 54. Studio 54 was always easier to go to with just my mom because of the way the VIP area was set up. (How about that for a sentence? Ah, I was just a normal kid!)
By the time The Blue Lagoon was released and I had been labeled “The ’80s Look” by Time magazine, I was already completely accepted by my new friends and they were unfazed by it all. High school can be a rough time for kids. Being a famous kid was not without its unique burdens, but I have always been thankful that my mom consistently forced us all to be accepting of the differences and not let my celebrity create a barrier. It was not easy, but she would not have it any other way. The press never gave Mom any recognition for this unique approach at all.
It was strange, too, that on the one hand Mom fought for my integration with kids my own age, yet on the other, she craved for me to become singled out and put on a pedestal by the world. This was a true contradiction—and some could say hypocritical—but it was the Teri way. I believe I managed to better regard my more grounded personal life because it was there that I felt unconditionally accepted. My mother constantly reinforced the importance of my life outside of work.
• • •
But the pressure was mounting in our public lives. During this time period, especially after The Blue Lagoon was such a hit, my professional life grew exponentially. It was all getting bigger and busier in many ways. Fans were now becoming a constant part of my life.
When it came to fan mail, Mom was incredibly diligent. I signed every autograph and honored every photo request, and Mom began by mailing each one out personally. It was getting to be too much, though, and we decided we needed help. My godmother, Auntie Lila, was working with us, and we had formed a corporation and named it Brooke Shields and Co. The “Co.” soon grew to an office with two other women as staff members. One lady dealt with business requests and mail and the other with schedules. Mom soon hired another woman, who handled accounting and financial transactions. We had a handyman to help with the house and the office maintenance. We had lawyers, a money manager, a cleaning lady three days a week, and a part-time driver named Dick. We even hired a student to read through and categorize the letters.
There were the photo requests, people asking for advice, posters to be signed, as well as letters from “The Crazies.” These were fans that raised a certain level of concern. They were basically stalkers who we handled differently than the honest fan who just wanted an autograph to add to a collection. These letters were separated out and sent on to Gavin de Becker, a security expert we’d also hired, to be filed. The individuals were placed on a watch list. Mom did not want me to see these letters. Although I knew the people existed, I had no interest in reading the contents of their correspondence because I would only get scared for my life.
Once the piles of letters were made, I would sit for blocks of time and hammer out all the signatures. Mom said that every correspondence meant another loyal fan. In press lines or at appearances I signed every single fan’s outstretched piece of paper or photo. She said they were all individuals and I must not alienate them. I posed for every paparazzo. I even signed the index cards from the “pros.” The pros are the ones who ask for a nonpersonalized autograph, which they then sell. I was always the last to leave an event because Mom wanted me to personally engage with every single person taking pictures or asking for a poster to be signed. I admired her care for people’s feelings, and because I also collected autographs myself, I understood how it felt to get passed over or denied. However, it was exhausting, and I do admit part of me wanted to avoid all of it.
Earlier on in my career, my mom and I had bought tickets to see the Academy Awards. Actors, celebrities, and presenters in the orchestra are invited, but there are additional seats, up in the mezzanine, that are open to the public for purchase. Mom and I were in California for some reason and, after years of watching the award show together on TV, had decided it would be exciting to attend in person.
We were seated way up high in the top balcony and I spotted Paul Newman. I jumped out of my seat and ran all the way down to the middle orchestra to ask Paul Newman for his autograph. He graciously declined, explaining that if he signed one for me, it would start a chain reaction and he would then have to sign everybody else’s program. I was slightly hurt but remained what I thought was polite, and I said, “Oh, OK, then could you just wave up to my mom?”
He obliged and turned back up toward the balcony. He did a sweeping wave in the general direction of the mezzanine and had no idea whom he was addressing. It was very sweet but awkward, because when my mom saw to whom I was gesturing, she immediately ducked behind a seat. I think that she was actually embarrassed by the fact that I had asked him to wave to her, so she hid. She weirdly did not want to have the attention shifted to her. I thanked Mr. Newman and returned to the balcony.
Even though I remember being a bit sad he did not sign my book, I would fully appreciate the situation years later when I was forced to respond the same way to a fan. All it takes is one person at a restaurant or any crowded area and you could literally be signing autographs for an hour.
The funny part to the whole story was that years later, when I was invited to be a presenter at the Academy Awards, I still brought my autograph book. After the broadcast, the presenters and winners and Academy members were all seated on the stage to take a huge cast photo. I was in the middle, a bit to the right, and I spotted Paul Newman a few rows down. I passed my book and a pen down to him and asked for his autograph. I guess he knew that I’d be the only one in that crowd who would ask, and he kindly obliged. I was thrilled. I thanked him and chose not to try to remind him of my previous disappointment.
Mom made me so conscious of my fans that I began dreading being anywhere. There seemed to be no boundaries. I understood Mom’s philosophy, but the sense of obligation and the fear of losing a fan’s devotion were often too much for me to take. I could never say no.
Mom would not let me be disturbed when I ate, however, and would instead explain that I would take the photo or sign the autograph as soon as the meal was over. She explained to me that if they really wanted to, they would wait. She hated when people would say they were leaving—could I just sign it now?
She’d respond, “Well, I hope you enjoyed your meal, because she is not yet finished with hers. She will be happy to sign for you after she’s done.”
Sometimes the people would wait and sometimes they left disappointed. I felt tortured and unable to enjoy the meal knowing people were wishing I’d hurry, and when those impatient people left, I felt hurt that I wasn’t worth the wait. Mom would joke that they were not my “biggest fans” after all. I know she was trying to make things easier, but the end result was that I could never relax.
Because of her hypervigilance toward my public, I felt as if the world owned me. It was the feeling that everybody wanted to take a piece.
• • •
I was offered Endless Love, and even though it was yet again another loss-of-innocence love story, the promise of working with Italian director Franco Zeffirelli made the project much more appealing. I had seen his film version of Romeo and Juliet and thought it was heartbreaking and beautiful. I had not worked with such an artist since Louis Malle. My mother and I both felt that this was going to be an important movie.
The story comes from a novel by Scott Spencer. Two teenagers, David and Jade, have an intensely romantic relationship as high school students. When Jade’s grades suffer, her parents force the two of them to break up, resulting in David’s breakdown, a criminal act, and much drama on both sides. The film shot in New York and on Long Island in the fall of 1980.
I am proud of my work in this film and attribute it all to Franco. He was tough, dramatic, and often insulting or drunk, but he expected your best and would not stop until he got it. He often made fun of my voice
and sometimes made me cry by picking on me. But I felt he actually believed I had talent and could be better. In one scene without dialogue Franco wanted to see a certain expression on my face as I looked through a window at my scorned boyfriend. He wanted me to show love and longing and sadness, and so he told me to hum the theme song to Romeo and Juliet in my head while looking out. In doing this, I forgot about my face and did not try to project the emotion with an expression. I thought it was a brilliant trick and it helped me understand how much you can do by not trying too hard.
The actors in the film were all rather serious, accomplished actors with the exception of Martin Hewitt, who played David. Don Murray played my dad. I had seen him in Bus Stop with Marilyn Monroe. Shirley Knight played my mom and James Spader played my protective brother. They were all generous actors and I felt honestly supported. I’m not sure I took my job as seriously as they did, but I was very professional and learned from them about acting. Martin and I got along well and enjoyed working with one another.
We neither fell in love nor hated each other, and Franco did not force the issue. After experiencing such pressure during The Blue Lagoon to be in love, this opposite approach came as a relief. All we were required to do was convince people we were in love. This approach freed us both up to become actual friends. There were nude scenes, so just as on The Blue Lagoon I had a body double. Once again the heavier love scenes in the film were shot primarily between Martin and my double. This, too, helped keep our friendship intact.
There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me Page 16