A supporting player I worked with was so good he made my male costar insecure to the point that he refused to work. The supporting player was fired. That’s power.
Another man I worked with had been having an affair with the cameraman’s wife. He had had such a bad night with Mrs. Camera that Mr. Camera couldn’t shoot his face in any light. We lost a whole day. That’s power.
A director who insisted upon waiting a week for the right cloud formation ran up nearly a half million dollar tab because of his “artistic integrity.” That’s power.
A small child I worked with in The Children’s Hour hated to take direction, brought the set to a standstill, and ended up being more powerful than any adult on the lot that week. That’s power.
Power, then, was a question of the moment. Those who had it one year would scarcely be remembered the next. So what did having power really mean? Why did people seek it, and why was it so important for me to respect it?
I think I was simpleminded about its relevance, but try as I did, I couldn’t see the true and deep advantage of having power because it was an illusion anyway.
I could understand being independently wealthy; that guaranteed a kind of freedom. I could understand being popular with the public; future jobs would be assured. But even that came at a price. Many of my fellow stars were popular playing one type of character and wished to expand and grow into another. The problem was that the public sometimes didn’t want to grow with them. So how much power did the star really have?
People who have the vision to express a film create dilemmas for studio heads. The executives know they can’t visualize what the filmmaker has in mind. The filmmaker knows that too. But the filmmaker needs the money. So the better part of valor for both is just to jump in and hope for the best. That’s the essence of our industry anyway: hold your nose and dive in. You know that for the duration of the filming your buttons will be pushed and your dreams will be buffeted about. Still, where else is there such collaboration of art and industry? Where else can you indulge your childhood fantasies until you feel you’ve become an adult? Where else can you leave a legacy of human expression that might affect billions of lives?
Therefore, to me, power is finally the courage and audacity to believe in yourself, to believe you have something important to say, and to see to it that you have the stamina to follow it through.
Nowhere is stamina more evident than on a film set. No one who hasn’t been through a three- or four-month shoot can conceive of what it takes.
The days begin at five o’clock in the morning, with the actors in makeup and the crew setting up the lights and camera for the shot. The producers and editors are usually there as watchdogs, spies, and friends of the court.
If you’re lucky you get your first shot by nine. That’s rare, however. Rare because when the above-the-line people come together with the crew, somebody always feels uncomfortable. Perhaps the structure of the scene itself is faulty. Perhaps an actor doesn’t want to say a certain line because it’s bad for his image. Perhaps an actress feels her character is demeaning to women. Perhaps the director has a shot that is so oblique the actors feel they aren’t being seen. Perhaps an actress has eaten too much salt over the weekend and her face is retaining so much water the camera picks it up and she won’t even match herself elsewhere in the film!
Perhaps two costars truly can’t bear each other, as was the case with Laurence Harvey and me on an innocuous picture called Two Loves. I found him insensitive and pompous. Once, right before the director called “action,” Harvey leaned toward me and scrutinized my left cheek. “What on earth is that?” He acted as though I had a hickey the size of Mount Fuji. Just as I was about to ask for a mirror, he said, “Never mind, they’ll never notice, it’s not your face you should be concerned about.” I did a slow burn but went right on with the scene. The next day was the love scene. I ate a clove of raw garlic before beginning it. That settled his hash.
I worked with a woman who wouldn’t allow her left side to be photographed. The entire set had to be redressed, the camera moved, and the scene restaged.
Sometimes a dramatic scene stimulates such deep emotion in an actor that he breaks down and sobs. Many actors dread crying scenes, because they are not able to cry with a hundred people in the crew looking on. Others are terrified that if they start crying, they won’t be able to stop, which would mean a new two-hour makeup and hair redress. I used to dread shooting dancing sequences because of the inevitable perspiration and humidity that ruined my hair and the base coat of my makeup, if the hair and makeup don’t match an earlier part of the scene, it will interfere with the emotional response of the audience.
Many times during a rehearsal, either I or some other actor has a brainstorm that means that everything is thrown out and we begin again.
Many is the time the crew sits around while actors and the director go over and over a nuance, or experience a disagreement, a staging conflict, or a temper tantrum.
I did a picture just recently where the three stars, me included, sensed a weakness in the director and decided to go for the jugular. The unexpressed insecurities we had about the way the scene was written drove us to quarrel about a simple staging move that had to do with looking out a window.
While the crew sat around we argued for two and a half hours about nothing. The director became more and more entrenched, and so did we. The producer was a weakling and couldn’t control the situation. Our own exhaustion finally wore us down and now I can’t even remember if we looked out the window or not.
These problems are never about what they seem to be about. They are usually about unexpressed anger, vulnerabilities, a feeling of endangerment, undeservability, vanity, or an all-around fear that nobody will love us.
Making pictures is like being in therapy. Every unresolved issue we’ve ever been plagued with will surface, depending, of course, on the material and the personnel involved. But if it doesn’t get you sooner, it will get you later, and so the jangle of discord continues throughout each working day. At lunchtime there is no letup. More discussion, arguing, creative differences. There is a slight slowdown after lunch, but soon it all heats up again.
The day continues until at least seven, but more likely nine. In the old days, we women used to have a “no close-ups after six o’clock” clause in our contracts. Today, because of spiraling costs and other economic factors, we usually shoot until the day’s allocated work is finished. That is often two in the morning (close-ups included). Screen Actors Guild requires a ten- or twelve-hour turnaround rest period, but many times the director, whom you are endeavoring to please, prevails upon you to waive your turnaround—if you don’t, you are responsible for the film’s running a day behind.
After the day’s work is finished, you don’t go home, or to your hotel if you’re on location. You go to the dailies. Dailies, or rushes, are many takes of the previous day’s work. To me, viewing them is necessary so I know how I’m doing. Some actors don’t like to see themselves on screen while they’re shooting; it makes them self-conscious. Some directors don’t like their actors to see the dailies for a variety of reasons. Sometimes they feel an actor will become unnecessarily self-critical, depressed, antagonistic to the camera angle, etc., etc. I had one very fine director who allowed the actors to view the dailies, but not to comment.
Even in a more open emotional environment, the moment after the lights come up can be painfully self-conscious. The silence is thunderous. Should you speak up if you didn’t like what you saw? What if everyone else liked it? You’re flummoxed at what the camera caught compared with what you thought you were doing. The back of your hair looks funny. Yet you know the director thinks you shouldn’t even be looking at your hair. You’ve blinked your eyes too much. Your voice is too high or indistinct. You ponder whether you’re too close to judge or whether the audience and critics will render the same verdict.
I remember not being able to see many of the dailies when I was in Mexico shooti
ng Two Mules for Sister Sara—the delay in processing back and forth from California made it difficult. I was playing a hooker posing as a nun and wore fake eyelashes. They were too overstated, but by the time I saw how awful they looked, it was too late. If I took them off, my face wouldn’t match the scenes already shot.
So you sit in the projection room, withholding your feelings until someone else speaks. Unfortunately, regardless of what you just saw, the first words are usually, “Great dailies. Just great.” The die is cast. Who among you is willing to cast the first stone? On a film there is nothing worse than creative sabotage. Belief in what you are doing is everything. Without an inordinate degree of creative self-belief, it is impossible to go forward every day, making astronomical economic decisions and accurate assessments of whether you’ve got what you want or need to change something. The dailies are usually the pudding of proof, and when the projection-room lights go up, the moment of truth is upon you. If you object to something, it must be done in the most oblique and subtle manner because all filmmaking is so personal, and that is how criticism is almost always taken—personally.
If a comment is particularly abrasive, an eruption can occur, which leads to hurtful arguing and raw, vented feelings. This doesn’t often happen because nobody will really tell you the truth anyway. First of all, they might be wrong. Second, it might cost them their jobs. And third, it’s always easier to refrain from rocking the boat.
So people who are considered difficult are usually those who come closer to expressing what they honestly feel. That is not wholeheartedly desired either. Some people in Hollywood are so megalomaniacal, and nurture personal agendas of such perversity, that it would be far better if they never expressed their truth at all.
On the other hand, some of the most obnoxiously crazy people are the most talented. If you can get past their insanity, there is sometimes creative gold underneath.
So moviemaking is like a continual group therapy session without a therapist each and every day. Usually it ends at midnight, and you have five hours to recuperate and prepare yourself for the next day’s “fun.”
Front-office people don’t know what to do with the emotional intensity of filmmakers. They don’t know how to react when they have prepared themselves for an explosion, but, out of genial manipulation, we artists instead withhold what we’re feeling, which drives them crazy. But they are rendered helpless at the sight of a truly talented person self-destructing. And when a creative person gets into that self-sabotage mode, nothing and nobody can help.
What does a studio head do when an actor freaks out because the scene reminds him of the time he was beaten by his father or an actress is positive she’s ugly because her mother instilled such insecurity? Neither can face the camera, and the “regular” people (crew and front office) try to cope as they watch time and money flow down the drain. The producer, particularly a creative one, usually acts as the go-between. He understands at least some of the emotionality involved, yet his indulgence is tempered with pragmatism, because wasting time and money won’t be tolerated for long.
I’ve always seen the producer’s role as that of a two-way diplomatic ambassador—an economic ambassador from the front office to the set, and an artistic ambassador from the set to the front office. The producer is on the scene of the production, but represents the home office. A director needs a powerful and good producer to be on his or her side because the director is also a diplomatic ambassador to the cast and crew.
The tempers that flare and the creative differences that escalate to open warfare often require peacemakers. In our business, however, the peacemakers are not blessed. They are usually vilified and judged to have no fighting backbone, no courage of their convictions, and that’s because “peace” is not the goal in moviemaking. Having your vision served is the goal. Yet an artistic endeavor must have the backing of the front office—hence a standoff.
There is no solution or formula that works for every picture because each filmmaker is different. Some are more paranoid than others. Some don’t care as much as others. Some are in it for the games, the hidden agendas. Because human emotions are the tools of our expression, financial people are in for a rocky ride if they want to save money while they make movies. It takes a special kind of mind to negotiate the rapids of free-flowing temperament because at the bottom of it all is the understanding that money flows from an enterprise only when the artistic impulse is protected from drying up. What a tightrope walk! What a poker game! A producer must evaluate his cards, weighing the positions of both front office and director. A director does the same with the cast and crew. The game is played with both poker faces and melodramatic antics. The ante is raised when you want someone to fold. The jokes, the camaraderie, the suspicions are cards played close to the vest. Pretty soon you realize it’s never about who wins the pot or even how the picture does. It’s all about what you’re learning about yourself while playing the game.
Hollywood is a place that puts you in touch with your desires. Only when you desire something deeply can you be corrupted. I was alone in this land of temptation, alone by choice. I had given up the pleasures and support system of my husband and child in order to pursue my desire to be successful, to be respected, to be hired, and to be loved. There were times when I felt both selfish and guilty about turning over my child to Steve’s supervision for so many months of the year, but his promise to care for her allowed me to feel comfortable; certainly the Hollywood alternative was not perfect either. Yet my desires in Hollywood did not include the kind of power the bosses had or even the power of fulfilling a perfectionistic artistic vision. More than anything I wanted the power of communicating to people.
I wanted to be artistic, but I also wanted to be commercial. It mattered to me whether my pictures made money, and not only because I’d get paid more. It was because those with the financial means would respect whatever secret quality I might possess that made me appeal to the public. Everyone in Hollywood wants to be appealing to large masses of people, particularly the bosses.
So as I questioned myself about my potential corruptibility, I realized it had to do with how much I wanted from Hollywood.
Possessions have never meant that much to me. I don’t have paintings and valuable works of art or the knowledge to collect them astutely. I’ve never erected a lifestyle for myself that would put possessions in a position of controlling me. I think I don’t have the strength of character to let myself be tempted. For that reason, I’ve also never really been involved with a super-wealthy man. It would jeopardize the control I would otherwise have in the relationship.
Yet Hollywood has carrots to dangle in front of every human being alive. It is a test site for determining your price. Did I have the confidence in myself to live and work around temptation? Was I purposefully ignorant of some of the most despicable power plays in town because I was afraid I might be drawn into playing the game the same wav? I’ve often wondered whether I was afraid of real power because I might abuse it. Power is a Tar Baby. Once you touch it, it never lets you go. No amount of it would be enough. No amount of money generated by it would be enough.
Perhaps choosing not to perceive corruptibility was my way of tolerating the ugliness that went on; otherwise I’d have to leave.
A few times over the years I played around with the idea of giving away everything but I never had the guts. I became interested in Buddhism and particularly in the personal values of the lamas. Those who completely divested themselves of wants and desires were incorruptible.
That was impossible for me to do in Hollywood. The tyranny of success, money, fame, the tyranny of desire, seemed to accompany me because I needed to communicate. At the same time, though, I was learning that real power came from the inside out—not from the outside in.
When I became interested in metaphysics, I conducted seminars in relation to what I had learned about internal values and spirituality, I didn’t see myself as a teacher but more as a student who was imparting her
experience.
For a while I deeply enjoyed the people who came for the weekend communal get-togethers. But then they began to mushroom into what I felt was a metaphysical steamroller with New Age groupies hanging from the sides, heralding that I had changed their lives.
I found this intolerable. I didn’t want the responsibility of that kind of power. I didn’t know what to do with it. I stopped the seminars.
But the question still remains in my heart and mind. When does the God-given right to control my own destiny become an insatiable need for power over those around me?
Am I so afraid of the question that I deny the materials to sculpt my own answer?
Just because I seem to have survived the minefields of Hollywood’s power play doesn’t mean I understand why.
Hollywood helps me to continue the search.
7
COMING TO TERMS
WITH TERMS
There are those who say that “difficulty” is what makes a picture good. I’m not sure I disagree with that. Certainly Terms of Endearment was a singularly difficult experience, and maybe the shooting circumstances contributed to its artistic success. Maybe not. In any case, Terms taught me a lot about the Game.
Jim Brooks, who wrote and directed Terms from the Larry McMurtry novel, is brilliant. He is shrewd, caring, and possessed of a certain take on human nature that celebrates the defects in us all. The experience of making Terms was analogous to his slant on life.
When Jim first came to me with his script, I loved it. He says I took him aside and whispered in his ear, “This could be important.” I don’t remember that, but if so, my psychic abilities far exceeded my awareness. In the two years that it took for every studio in town to turn the script down twice, he vigilantly kept abreast of anything else I might consider doing. So … I didn’t work anywhere else. I even walked away from a Steven Spielberg production (the part of the mother in the original Poltergeist) because I wanted to be available for him. Jim makes a street-smart evaluation of other people that puts your own self-awareness to shame. That’s why the picture became important to me.
My Lucky Stars Page 12