My Lucky Stars

by Shirley Maclaine

  “Nixon used to sit in this chair totally naked,” said the butler, “drinking scotch from a bottle and smoking cigars and dropping the ashes on the carpet.” He said Nixon was drunk a lot and was, to put it mildly, “quite primitive.”

  But things were different now. The Carters were genteel, regular, and fun, particularly Miss Lillian.

  Miss Lillian loved the spotlight. It brought out her theatrical instincts. Because she was the president’s mother, she became even more eccentric. Miss Lillian could have been a model matron in a Tennessee Williams play (preferably a comedy). She was more direct than the sun’s glare. She would gaze through to the very soul of you and then make a quip that spoke to something you felt was a secret. She was breath takingly honest about the President. “He says he never tells a lie,” she said. “That’s a lie. You know kids. They are always lying, particularly Jimmy. He knows how to make it sound good. He says I had a born-again experience with the Peace Corps in India. Well, I had a good trip, but it didn’t change my life.”

  Miss Lillian had a disarming way of telling the truth as she saw it without really hurting anyone. I liked being around her because she reminded me of the down-home people of my childhood. The people who could spin tales on the back porch long after dark. She was real even though she knew she was an entertainment. She was spry and would take guff from no one. She often stayed with me at my home in Malibu and forced me to go to baseball games, where she cheered, jeered, and leered at the players. She loved the L.A. Dodgers, and once in the dugout she ate so much caviar she became really sick. I called my doctor, and before he realized he was treating the President’s mother, he suggested she form her own vaudeville act with other “Golden Girl types,” as we’d later call them, just to inspire the Gray Panthers of senior citizenry.

  President Carter would call every night to check on his mom and express his “pride” in our having such fun “just being ourselves.”

  I liked and enjoyed the Carters a great deal. They were simple, highly intelligent, and deeply spiritual human beings. In fact, I thought Jimmy Carter saw himself as an American Gandhi whose moral responsibility was to walk among his people, counseling them on what he called their “malaise.”

  The people surrounding Carter in the White House were something else again. Tim Kraft was a quiet but thorough chief of staff who loved Dean Martin. I endeared myself to him when I got him and his party tickets to see Dean and Frank at the Westchester Premiere Theater. Tim had no idea that the guys with cauliflower ears walking up and down the aisles—including a priest who wore a diamond cross covering his vestments that would have been the envy of Bulgari in Rome—were later to be indicted for racketeering.

  Hamilton Jordan was the raucous playboy of the Carter crowd. I attended a party in Beverly Hills with him once. It was rather boring, to my mind, but when I opened the morning paper, I’d have thought a dope orgy had taken place. I saw nothing of the sort of thing that was reported by the paper. Namely, cocaine and wild women. A few people went to the bathroom quite frequently, but the “wild women” were somewhere else. Jordan had a way of attracting such headlines. He was shrewd and politically well aware, but since he had power, he was going to use it to have some good-of-boy fun. He was fun, but sometimes at his own risk.

  The Carter crowd in the White House loved being around movie stars just as everybody else did. Since they were liberal Democrats, they found themselves meeting liberal performers. The connection between politicians and performers was in full swing again. This time they were younger: Linda Ronstadt, Chevy Chase, and others.

  We held the premiere of The Turning Point at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. The Carter family were guests of honor.

  Soon after that, I went to Hamilton to tell him that Herbert Ross, the director of The Turning Point, the Twentieth-Century Fox brass, and I had been invited to Cuba to present the film in Havana. Alicia Alonso, the prima ballerina assoluta, was an old friend of Herbert’s wife, the great ballerina Nora Kaye, and was still residing in Havana. She longed to be reacquainted with American ballet, so Nora would come with us.

  Hamilton gave us his and the administration’s blessing, and because I wanted to shoot a live-TV-musical special from the Riviera nightclub in Havana, he offered to be of any help he could.

  It was a breath of fresh air finally to have a Democratic administration, one more open to person-to-person exchanges between political adversaries.

  Our group from Hollywood made our rendezvous in New York, and after many complications relating to traveling to a country the United States didn’t recognize diplomatically, we left for Havana.

  By then I had traveled to many communist countries—Russia, Czechoslovakia, Romania, East Germany, Poland, and mainland China. As soon as we landed in Cuba, I could see that with all its dreadful drawbacks, the Cuban revolution was the sexy one. There were margaritas on Varadero Beach, laughter and teasing in the streets, and much raucous Latin humor in the nightclubs. A delegation from Russia and Romania was visiting Havana when we were there. We saw them everywhere and observed their behavior. They were very stiff and formal. To them the Latin American temperament didn’t compute. They sat in restaurants and nightclubs unable to comprehend how good communists could be having so much fun. Part of the emotional commitment to Soviet-style communism must have been to give up good times. I know there were thousands of artists, writers, and poets in jail under Castro, but it was not so well-known then as it is now. The men and women who represented the communism of Eastern Europe were dark-spirited, dour, somber, and inflexible. They couldn’t even see their way to getting drunk, which was something they had no problem with at home.

  The great treat of this visit for me was meeting Alicia Alonso and her ballet company. She was magnificently regal and humorous, yet she was almost completely blind. She showed us around her school, negotiating her steps with intuitive precision. She told us that sometimes she even performed. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for her to dance without eyesight. How did she judge space? She was so proud of her allegiance to the revolution and said she operated with complete freedom. I had loved her dancing since my childhood. I had heard of her involvement with the revolution when I grew more aware. She was a dancer’s dancer, so I asked her how she felt about artists’ political involvement. She told me a story. She said years ago someone from the press had expressed astonishment that she, as one of the world’s great ballerinas, would become politically active. “How do you have time to acquaint yourself with political revolution?” he asked. “And why are you even aware of it?” She answered, “Why, where do you expect me to dance then, on the moon?”

  We spent a whole day with Alonso. Just to watch her and Nora Kaye interact was the fulfillment of a childhood dancing-school dream.

  Then we all went over to the Cuban Film Commission, saw some of their recent films, and met with actors, painters, and poets. People in the arts are the same all over the world. We feel we know each other regardless of our cultural and political differences. We know we see the world differently, and because of this, we often feel isolated from the mainstream and connected with one another. Of course we didn’t expect any open criticism of Castro, but we all had the feeling that these artists felt commissioned with the responsibility of furthering the revolution any way they could.

  The consensus seemed to be that Fidel Castro had raised the level of literacy to 90 percent or higher and that economic times were hard because of the American embargo on their goods. Yet there was laughter and joking and drinking and fun between us. The weather was rainy and heavy waves surged over the retaining walls along the Havana coastline. I had not thought of Havana as having problems and attributes similar to Malibu.

  We walked along the beach, ogling Cuban women in bikinis, remarking among ourselves, “These are communists?” There were beachcombers displaying magic tricks and vendors serving margaritas. We ran into many Canadian visitors because their government had a more liberal policy toward communist coun
tries. I thought of my father and his abhorrence of communism, his fear that my mother’s relative in Canada had “communist tendencies.” I wouldn’t have wanted to live under such a system, of course, but that didn’t make the people who believed in it evil.

  The Turning Point opened to an enthusiastic response. The people and the critics appreciated the opening immensely, but in general felt that the story was more of a soap opera than it should have been. We had lengthy discussions with members of the film union about the content of the story.

  Some people couldn’t understand why the characters in the picture had a problem with adultery. They argued that monogamy was not part of human nature and not expected in marriage. Others strongly felt that the woman I played, a ballet dancer who gave up dance to have a husband and children, could have been married and pursued a career with no problem. In their society, they said, such a dilemma would have been unbelievable because everyone was equal, everyone desired to work. I told them that American women were suffering from exhaustion in attempting to be homemakers and work in the marketplace simultaneously. I asked if their men helped with the children and the housework. They rolled their eyes and shook their heads. But they said, “We make it work. We have the energy.”

  I wondered.

  I also wondered how they reconciled communism, the Catholic faith, and the African influence that underpinned the entire culture. They said their revolution embraced these aspects of life. This was so different from what I had seen in Eastern Europe, Russia, and China. Then I met the man responsible for it all and began to see why Cuba was different.

  Our movie group was ushered into a waiting room in the offices of Fidel Castro. Settling into comfortable chairs with our soft drinks, we waited and chatted. We had been there for about forty-five minutes when an aide came and asked for me. I identified myself and he said Castro wanted to see me … alone. I looked at Herb and Nora. They winked, nodded, and gestured for me to go.

  I was led by a uniformed attendant down a wide hallway. At the end of it was a thick double door. It opened just as I arrived, and as if on cue, there stood Fidel Castro.

  I looked up into his face. He was very tall. His familiar beard was well groomed and his eyes alive with interest.

  I put out my hand. He shook it and greeted me in Spanish. His translator did so simultaneously. Then he moved and gestured for me to follow him to a chair. I watched him walk and was struck by how effeminate his body movement was … the sound of his voice … his involuntary way of being. I never expected such a feminine essence in Fidel Castro. I expected a macho revolutionary and a swaggering leader of men. I had heard that he would suggest sweeping me up into his Jeep for a jaunt through sugarcane. Barbara Walters had told me to beware. This didn’t seem to be the case.

  We sat down. Before I knew it, he had launched into one of the famous Castro monologues interspersed with questions about everything American from instant orange juice to the Kennedys. I longed to ask him if Sam Giancana had ever personally lit a cigar for him.

  He told me of his trip to Manhattan when Eisenhower was president. He said he had had to stay in Harlem because he wasn’t recognized as a head of state. He used his hands a great deal when he spoke. His fingers were long and expressive.

  He spoke at length about “los niños,” the children of Cuba, and what their literacy meant to the future success of his revolution. He spoke of poets and artists and theatrical people and how they contributed to a revolution. I asked him why so many were in jail. A revolution needed inspiration, not demolition, he said. When I spoke of freedom of expression, he said that was for the American Revolution because ours took place so long ago. His revolution was not completed yet.

  He spoke of the problems of cities, and traffic, and space. He said he was fascinated by the skyscrapers he had seen in Manhattan and wondered how they had been built. He asked me about the theater in New York and whether I did live theater as well as movies. I said yes and then told him I wanted to do a live-TV show from the Riviera nightclub in Havana. I said I wanted to contribute to a better understanding of our two cultures. He thought about it awhile and nodded yes. Then he said “Good” in English. I wondered how much English he really spoke. I asked him if it was true that he had been an extra in the original Ten Commandments directed by Cecil B. DeMille. I said there was a rumor that he was one of the spear carriers, and there was a photograph to prove it. He thought a moment and said he had never seen the picture.

  I decided not to press the issue.

  We talked for about three and a half hours. I was concerned for Herb and Nora and The Turning Point party, who waited patiently down the hall. Fidel knew they were there but he was clearly on “mañana” time, enjoying himself and looking for a way to be remembered diplomatically to Jimmy Carter. I admired his uniform and told him military duds were all the rage in the States. He clocked that fact and summoned the rest of my party.

  They entered, still cheerful and thankfully not at all resentful of the time they had waited. Fidel asked them about our film and the ways of Hollywood, and declared how essential it was for us to have a people-to-people bridge between countries of differing political perspective.

  He was charming, hospitable, talkative, and generous in seeing to whatever needs we might have.

  We left him with humorous warnings not to pirate our picture. We wanted the people of Cuba to see it, but we didn’t want him to steal it! He laughed, knowing full well, as did we, that he would do it anyway.

  After a dinner of excited chat about meeting Castro, I went to my hotel room to get some rest. At about 11:30 there was a knock on the door. I opened it. There stood Fidel, alone except for his translator. He had a bag of gifts in one hand and one of his uniforms in the other.

  “You admired this,” he said. “I brought you one.” He handed me the uniform and asked if he could come in. I thought of Barbara Walters, but I ushered him in anyway.

  We sat together on my sofa. His translator became the invisible woman.

  Fidel pulled a box from his bag. It was hand-carved. He opened it to reveal Cuban cigars. “Your Mr. Hamilton Jordan smokes these,” he said, “and perhaps after dinner even your president would like one.”

  I lifted one of the cigars and smelled its aroma. I could see why they were a frequently smuggled item.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will personally give these to Mr. Jordan and President Carter.”

  “Now,” said Fidel, taking out another longer, thinner box. “This is for your Mr. Brzezinski.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Fidel. “It’s a peace pipe. I would like to smoke the pipe of peace with him, particularly as it relates to our role in Angola. It’s difficult to say these things officially, but you are a people-to-people bridge. Please give him this pipe and offer my gesture of peace.”

  Fidel gently opened the gift wrapping and showed me the pipe. It looked exactly like what he said.

  “I will take this back with me,” I said. “Thank you. I’m going to see them as soon as I return.”

  Fidel then extracted a huge glass box from his bag. There was a stuffed bird mounted inside.

  “This is a dove,” he said. “It’s a dove of peace. It’s my gift to you. It’s Canadian. I know your mother was Canadian. We have many Canadians here. Also, I know of your work with Mr. McGovern. I know of your feelings about the Vietnam War. I know of your efforts for peace; therefore, I want you to have this dove.”

  He handed me the big glass box. Why was he doing all of this? I wondered. Wasn’t there another emissary available? Were we just the right people to act as unofficial ambassadors in the diplomatic world because everybody liked movie stars? Were we famous enough to command attention, but not quite authentic enough to be taken seriously?

  I had delivered messages from Helmut Schmidt of Germany to President Carter prior to the Paris conference, from Willy Brandt to Pierre Trudeau, from Olof Palme of Sweden to the antiwar movement in America, It was as though perso
nally delivered messages from famous artists who “cared” enabled political leaders to test the waters of future discussions. Were we, as Castro said, “bridges” to opposing worlds?

  Castro stood up, walked around my room, and asked me if I’d enjoyed myself in Cuba. I said I had particularly liked the bands and the old-fashioned nightclubs. He then talked for another hour about the necessity to understand that his was a poor country and that he wanted friendship with the United States. He longed for the embargo to be discontinued and suggested that there were very good deals for American business in Cuba, and he added, “I will do whatever I can to provide access and equipment if you do your TV show from Havana.”

  I listened, wondering which artist might be suffering in a Havana jail for writing a book or painting a picture that challenged some of his revolutionary dictates. Then I thought of John Mitchell’s corruption and Spiro Agnew’s lawbreaking and Richard Nixon’s bombing of Cambodia. I thought of the declining rate of literacy in America and the dope dumped on our streets, somehow undetected by federal authorities. I thought of the kickbacks and the Mafia and the criminal activity committed in the name of capitalism.

  All life seemed to be a choice of second best, leaving us with the age-old conflict of whether the future was worth the sacrifice of the present. I wondered what continued to motivate Castro. Apparently he had to sleep in a different place every night. What was it that gave his destiny meaning year after year? Was it possible to identify so much with your people that you came to think of the two as one—the De Gaulle is France syndrome? Was that what drove Castro? In his mind, Castro was Cuba? And vice versa. Maybe that was what it took to be a revolutionary leader.