by Ruth Kaufman
A video camera with its red light on, held by Danny, the guy filming the “Making of ILMM” featurette for the DVD.
He’d better not be zooming in on my ass.
Chapter 9
MARLA GOLDBERG’S BLOG: ACTING IS HARDER THAN IT LOOKS
For anyone who thinks film actors just stand there and recite lines between bouts of pampering, think again. Movie sets have many distractions, such as crew members moving in your peripheral vision while you’re trying to concentrate. It’s a challenge to remember lines and hit your marks (usually colored tape on the floor in the shape of the letter T) while emoting and moving exactly as you’ve been directed. Over and over with only slight variations, even if you’re hot, cold, hungry or tired. But for some reason, since my high school choir appeared on TV for our very own half-hour Christmas special, since my first TV production class in college, I’ve relished being in front of a camera. And when you get a scene right, everyone knows it. There’s no better feeling.
Thanks for visiting,
Marla
greatscottgroupies.com/worldwide
Our Scott has started a production diary! Run, do not walk, to ILoveMyMistressTheMovie.com. Note his post about why he makes movies. The annual GSG survey proves his talent and industry clout make him one of the few men who deserve a God complex.
After wardrobe, I learn they’re running behind and won’t need me on set until after lunch. So, I head to my tiny trailer dressing room to catch up on email before I confirm whether I actually have to gain those five pounds. In five days.
There it is, with my name in masking tape on the door. There’s even a red star near the top. Love it.
I grab my laptop and search for everything I can find about Scott and the film. My heart speeds up every time I scroll, but as of now there’s nothing I don’t already know.
What’s the big deal about Twitter? Maybe I’d find out if I used it more. Wow. Somehow I’ve accumulated over a thousand followers. I feel I owe them something, so before shutting down my laptop, I tweet, “Thanks to my new followers! Looking forward to filming soon! #ILMM”
Now to investigate the weight issue. I’d been far too horrified to ask while that thong wended its merry way into my private parts. Scott’s barely concealed mirth at my expense made me change clothes so fast I almost ripped the stupid thing. So glad a glimpse of my blubbery, unclothed self could brighten his day.
By the time I dared to poke my head out, he was gone.
On set, Scott’s too busy setting up his shots to talk to me. He confers with various crew members and grumbles about the weather, which features a heat index of 104 degrees, courtesy of Chicago’s humidity.
Sheila Lassiter, his assistant, sits close by, talking on her cell while typing on a laptop. Her hair is so yellow and her body so thin she reminds me of a Flatsy doll (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flatsy_doll for those not old enough to remember).
Sam and I certainly aren’t the best of friends, and I don’t know the other producers yet, so I track down Max. He’s sitting on his personalized ILMM canvas chair and talking on two cell phones at once, one with a silver case, one with a blue case.
“Uh-huh,” he says to the blue phone.
“No,” to the other.
“Yes, of course I will,” to the blue.
“Marla?” I assume to me.
Talk about multitasking.
“The costume designer says I have to gain some weight,” I say.
“No. Don’t you dare.”
I’m not sure if that was meant for me or the silver phone.
“Tiffi, hon, I’m on set. Yes, it is a heap o’ fun to say that. I’ll talk to you later. No, you’ve spent enough this week. I thought you just bought a pink Prada purse. Fine, shopping tote. No, you don’t need a leather buckles tote, too. We’ll talk later.” All to the blue phone.
And then to the silver, “Take care of it today. Thank you, gentlemen.” He presses both phones to hang up and looks up at me. “Marla. Thanks for saying you’d wait. What can I do for you?”
“What I said was, ‘The costume designer said I have to gain some weight.’ Do you know if that’s true?”
“Yes, ma’am. Five pounds by the time you shoot the second bedroom scene. Should have been in your contract. I assume you read it before signing?”
His phones start ringing. He presses accept on both and holds one to each ear. “Maximilian here.”
Maybe there was a weight clause and in my joy at being cast I missed it. Fine print makes me impatient. That’s why I had a lawyer friend do my condo closing. She told me to sign page after page, which I did without paying attention to a word except the amount I had to pay.
Five pounds. The sacrifices I make for my art. Resolutely I make my way to the food table next to the craft services truck. At least the selection for cast and crew is more extensive and appealing than I’m used to getting as a mere extra. Fresh muffins and the aforementioned donuts beckon along with fruit instead of shrink-wrapped crackers with cheese or granola bars. I can even ask them to cook me something to order.
“Focus on the positive,” VIH advises. “For once you can eat as much as you want without any guilt.”
Mmmmm. Yes. I feel some brownie sundaes with bittersweet hot fudge coming on. And a few trips to Frances’s deli for chocolate peanut butter milkshakes are definitely in order. Yum. That delicious blend of rich chocolate and creamy peanut butter thick enough to eat with a spoon….
“Keep your receipts. Get the movie to pay.”
Yes, but the more I eat, the more I want to eat. What if I can’t stop eating or if my stomach permanently expands? How long will it take me to lose whatever I do gain? Unlike Renée Z, I won’t have Carolina Herrera on hand to make custom gowns or dresses to accommodate my size(s).
I take a plate—real, not paper or thin plastic like extras use—and carefully select one, two, three, four, five, six donuts. Half a dozen. All for me. The heat has made them softer than usual. My mouth waters as I sit at one of the crew tables.
Some woman walks by and shakes her head when she sees my donut pyramid. Am I going to have to wear a “must gain 5 lbs ASAP” sign so no one thinks I’m a glutton or have an eating disorder? I want to say, “They’re not all for me,” but even that lie won’t come out of my mouth.
I’m about to bite into the first donut when Tatiana strolls by. She’s wearing skin-tight white jeans with a fitted, cropped tank and sips a cup of orange juice.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Stacey,” she says.
“Thanks, Audra.” I match her cool tone.
“I’m glad I don’t have to gain weight for my role.” Her free hand skims her flat abdomen. “If you need a trainer after, let me know. Mine probably won’t have time to squeeze you in, no pun intended. He’s completely booked with A-list clients like me, but we can always try. Later.”
For an instant I wish I were Samantha in Bewitched (the TV show or movie) and could twitch my nose and make Tatiana’s juice splash onto her jeans.
Back to my plate of donuts. I envision the first as Tatiana’s head and take a huge bite. I’ll show her. I’ll be the best wife ever.
The first three are yummy. Fresh, fragrant and sweet. I love the way the shiny glaze melts on my tongue. I’ve never eaten three donuts at the same time. By the fourth, I’m getting a sugar buzz. My jaws are tired of chewing. I close my eyes and slog my way through donut number five. This is how the men on my favorite show The Amazing Race must have felt when they had to eat four pounds of meat, like cow udder and intestine, in Argentina. No wonder Rob from Survivor got them to agree to take a four-hour penalty instead of finishing the food.
I stare at the sixth. It is not my friend. Maybe donuts aren’t the best way to go.
Thankfully the craft services guy makes me a weight-gaining shake, mixed in a blender with fresh strawberries so it tastes like a smoothie. After sucking that down, I’m bloated like Augustus Gloop in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory while he sl
urps the chocolate river. My pants already feel too snug.
I burp.
And there’s only an hour until lunch.
“Action!”
In the split second before STACEY speaks while reclining in bed with a book, I block out glaring lights and the fact that at least fifty production personnel, including Scott, are watching every move I make on the monitors. I am STACEY, the concerned wife ever so fearful of losing her husband. Of losing everything she holds dear. I focus on the feeling I know all too well instead of the mélange of bliss, terror and hope spiraling through me at shooting my first scene in a major motion picture.
STACEY & ALAN’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.
STACEY is in bed dozing with a thick novel. The clock reads 2:06 AM.
ALAN
(Sneaks into the room.)
STACEY
(Smiles sleepily.)
You’re home. What time is it?
ALAN
Go back to sleep. I’ll be there in a minute. (Goes into bathroom. Hear water running.)
STACEY
(Smile fades as ALAN leaves)
So how was your day? (Pause.) Where did you go for the client dinner? (Pause.) I had a good day, the ER wasn’t too crazy.
ALAN
(Toothbrush in hand)
Stacey. There’s something I need to tell you. I can’t go on like this. I’ve—well, I’ve met someone. I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me. But I can’t be with you both. I’m moving out. Today.
STACEY
(Jumps out of bed, bursts into tears)
You’ve met someone? Who? How long have you been betraying me? How could you destroy our marriage? Say something. I deserve some answers.
“And cut. Thank you, everyone. Reset quickly, please,” calls the AD.
“Alan, I need to see more concern from you,” Scott says. “You’re coming across a tad colder than I’d like. You do care about both women. Stacey, reveal a bit more shock. Take your time. No need to jump into your lines. Let her experience the moment so we can feel what she feels.”
I do my best to take his comments for what they are, direction, not personal criticism. I admit to being on the defensive side.
“We’re going again.”
“Quiet, please.”
“Rolling.”
“Picture’s up.”
“Speed.”
“And…action!”
The rhythm of making a movie.
Again and again I leap out of bed and summon tears. My throat is raw by the time they turn the camera around to shoot a different angle. Then come closeups for each of us.
When they call “checking the gate” and “new deal,” meaning we’re finally moving to a different camera set up, I’m wrung dry. Far more exhausted but much less frustrated than I was hawking radio time to advertising agencies and advertisers at WZRJ.
I plop onto my canvas director’s chair, for the first time not thinking how cool it is to have one with my name on one side and the movie logo on the other and hoping I’ll get to keep it. Because the phantom pain of Alan’s betrayal lingers. I have been where Stacey is: unable or unwilling to see that my husband no longer wants to live with me. No longer loves me. Has failed to keep promises made to our family and friends and written on our ketubah, our Jewish marriage contract.
I’ve felt her shock, the gnawing hurt when he says it’s too late. When he leaves, making me wonder what’s wrong with me, what I did wrong and trouncing my self-esteem. Which, as you can see, hasn’t recovered sufficiently, given the state of my social life: a fruitless crush on a famous, sexy, successful film director.
As we shoot, Scott seems to grow more immersed in the movie and less in what goes on around him. He’s clearly less interested in talking to me, except to give notes on my performance. I’d so hoped our Max brunch experience meant something to him, too. Deep inside, I knew his holding my hand meant nothing. No connection. Nonetheless, I’d hoped.
I need to read that book or see the movie He’s Just Not That Into You.
During Scott’s last shoot, rumors abounded about starlets, wannabe starlets and GSGs who visited him on set. So far I haven’t glimpsed any female who doesn’t belong here. And I’ve kept my eyes open, too. Which means either:
1) he has foresworn other woman because he wants me but doesn’t pursue his desire, almost uncontrollable though it might be, because
a. movie romances rarely last and he wants to be with me forever, so he’ll wait, albeit impatiently, and pursue me after filming.
b. he’s not into paparazzi attacks and wants to protect me from getting hassled by those who’d drool to get the scoop on what dating Great Scott is like.
2) the other women hide in his trailer or hotel room because
a. he knows I’m into him and doesn’t want to upset me (so I can continue with filming) even though he’s not into me.
b. he doesn’t want the paparazzi to know about them.
Despite repeated application of powder and concealer by the makeup woman, my eyes and nose are still red. I’m so stuffed up I can barely breathe. I return to my dressing area and collapse on the narrow couch, too tired to take off Stacey’s nightgown. I pop in a piece of sugar-free butterscotch hard candy to soothe my throat, then close my stinging eyes.
Though at this moment I can barely move a muscle, being an actress is a thousand times more interesting, creative and rewarding than my job as a light rock radio station account executive. I finally feel like I’m doing what I want with my life.
It took me forty-two years to get here.
Unfortunately, not everyone gets the opportunity to have the job she most wants, no matter how hard she persists. There are those who say the ones who don’t make it simply didn’t want “it” badly enough. I know that’s not true. In no particular order, success is a combination of:
1) persistence
2) talent
3) being in the right place at the right time, aka luck
4) believing you are worthy of happiness
5) confidence.
That’s why there are so many unhappy people in the world. They didn’t choose. They blindly followed life paths that happened to open and ended up in jobs that enervate them, sapping their energy so they’re too weary and stuck to take steps to change as they trudge from day to day.
I am different. I made things different by escaping the frustrating drudgery of corporate America and sales. I am free. But I’m still aging, exhausted, dateless and getting plumper by the minute, with no source of income lined up after Mistress wraps.
What happens when you choose, are fortunate enough to get what you thought you wanted, then realize it’s not as good or satisfying as you expected? Where do you go from there?
How many times can a person reinvent herself?
Chapter 10
MARLA GOLDBERG’S BLOG: ARE YOU A LATE BLOOMER, TOO?
Finally, at 42, my dreams are starting to come true. Why does it take so long for some of us to get what we want, or for some require such persistence and effort, when good things seem to befall others naturally? Though even what you think you want, when you get it, doesn’t always turn out the way you wanted. (See Into the Woods, which covers this topic. The musical, not the movie, which IMO doesn’t do Sondheim justice.)
Does anyone know who first said, “Be careful what you wish for?” Is imagination always better than reality…like when you go see a movie adaptation of a favorite book and it’s not what you’d expected? (See above.)
Filming a movie is rarely glamorous whether you’re an extra or a principal. Though when you have a speaking part, you get treated better. Twelve to fifteen-hour days, a large portion of which is spent waiting for the crew between shots. Waiting around is followed by repetition during take after take after take. Unless Clint Eastwood is directing. He was the speediest director I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. As an extra, that is. Look for me in Flags of our Fathers, the scene where John Slattery gives a speech to a crowd
.
Another miracle. Scott and I are alone. At last.
We’re ensconced in a cozy booth at tudo o que você pode comer, an upscale all-you-can-eat Brazilian churrascaria, or steakhouse.
You get this green and red placard so the waiters know when to bring you more meat. There’s a vast salad bar, side dishes, and let’s not forget those desserts.
“Thanks for coming with me.” I’m trying to get at the reason Scott offered to join me.
In my imagination he says, “I’ve been watching you on set and waiting ’til the time was right for us to be alone. I can’t wait another minute. I’m going to kiss you now.”
In reality, he says, “Max mentioned your concerns about having to gain weight so quickly. He suggested I try to keep you happy by supporting your eating endeavors.”
Sssssss. That’s the sound of my balloon of joy deflating. Now Scott will think me another high-maintenance actress. He’ll not only get to see me look like a cow, he’ll see me eat like one, too. Even while stuffing my face, I’m overjoyed to be alone with him. Another great not-a-date date. But this is a perfect venue for a woman with two more pounds to gain and two days to go.
I probably never would’ve come here otherwise.
1) My weight-conscious friends would never set foot in an all-you-can-eat establishment.
2) I’m leery of consuming so many calories and foodstuffs at one sitting. What do they do to your blood sugar and cholesterol?
3) At $50 per person, the price is more than I usually spend on a meal.
I chew my way through some filet mignon after consuming a huge plate of salad bar treats and countless pieces of warm, scrumptious bread.
Thank goodness I wore an elastic waist skirt. I had to, because none of my pants would button. Not even the “fat” pairs.