by Sachi Parker
The atmosphere on the set of Irma La Douce was markedly different. Mom was playing a lady who wore a very tight dress, and her costar, Jack Lemmon, played a policeman with a funny hat. I had no idea what the risqué situations and sophisticated repartee were supposed to represent, but the two of them seemed to be having a great time. Maybe that was because there was no romance between them; Mom always said that Jack Lemmon was a sweetheart, a really nice guy—and that wasn’t her type at all. So they became very good friends, and remained that way.
There were stars galore roaming the sets and visiting our house in those early days. Mom was working on movies with Dean Martin, Audrey Hepburn, Cliff Robertson, Laurence Harvey; her friends included Danny Kaye and the Rat Pack regulars. For me, though, there was one young star who stood out from the rest.
He was young, impossibly handsome, outrageously charming, and possessed of an ineffable aura. When he walked into the room, it was like getting hit with a charge of electricity.
“Say hello to Warren!” said Mom.
Warren was my uncle. He was three years younger than Mom, and he had followed her to Hollywood. Both of them had fled from the suffocation of their Virginia home. My grandparents were devout Baptists, and devout alcoholics—not really a workable combination. I never heard much of the details of Mom’s childhood—she didn’t talk about it—but I know there was a lot of unhappiness and emotional pain there, and she couldn’t wait to get out.
I assume Uncle Warren felt the same way. I’d met him before of course, on earlier trips home. He’d been trying to get a foothold in show business for years, appearing on TV shows such as Dobie Gillis and Playhouse 90. So far, breakout success had eluded him.
But now was his time. There was something new in his manner, a self-awareness, a recognition of his own impending stardom, that made him irresistibly attractive and yet warned all to keep their distance. Splendor in the Grass, his first film, was about to hit the screens, and there was a healthy buzz about his performance. Even if there hadn’t been, Warren would have created his own buzz. The air vibrated around him.
In many ways, Warren was still a kid, but curiously he didn’t have any special knack for relating to children. They didn’t seem to interest him at all, until they got to be twenty or so. I never saw him without a beautiful woman at his side, or two or three. He accepted their presence as his due, wearing them on his arm as casually and inevitably as a folded sports jacket on a warm day.
I admit, as a little girl I had a big crush on him. Who didn’t? I never thought of him as my uncle, or as someone related to me in any way. He was a separate force, a seductive charmer who could put anyone under his spell with a glance, and just as quickly and ruthlessly cut that person adrift.
I felt the pull of that magnetism even as a child, but I didn’t rush to him and throw my arms around his strong legs. Even though he flashed his killer smile at me and his eyes sparkled with promise, there was something about him that said, “Don’t come too close.” So I didn’t.
• • •
IN 1961 they were holding auditions for the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird. The book by Harper Lee had been a huge bestseller, and everyone was expecting the movie version to be an Oscar contender at year’s end. So every actor in Hollywood wanted in. Gregory Peck was chosen for the role of Atticus Finch early on—there really was no other choice—but other juicy roles were still available, including the two children through whose point of view the story was told.
Out of the blue, Mom decided that I should audition for the role of Scout, Atticus Finch’s daughter. I don’t know where she got this idea; it’s not like I was campaigning to be a child actress. While I had no shyness about performing in front of people—there were plenty of staged photo shoots with me and Mom attesting to the fact—it just never occurred to me that I might become an actor.
Mom had conceived a vision, though, and once she shifted into producing gear, there was no way she wasn’t going to make it happen. She set up an audition right there at her L.A. home, got hold of a copy of the script a few days before, and we went over the entire story, moment by moment. Mom coached me in doing a Southern accent—“but not too Southern,” she cautioned—and she created the scene for me in detail, giving me hints about motivation, focus, presence, and so on. It was my first master class in acting, and I tried to absorb what I could. Then she added, “Just relax.”
When the time came, she called me into the living room, which was filled with people from the production, including the director, Robert Mulligan; the producer, Alan J. Pakula; and the leading man, Gregory Peck. Now, if I’d known what a big star Mr. Peck already was, and what an iconic figure he was about to become on the strength of this movie, I probably would have quickly thrown up and rushed out of the room. But to me he was just a nice tall man with a warm smile. I didn’t feel a bit nervous in his august company. I was just going to do a little pretending.
Mom handed me the script, and I found my mark in the middle of the living room and got into character. “Hey, Mr. Cunningham!” I said, reading from the script, making sure not to hold it in front of my face as Mom warned. “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m Jean Louise Finch. You brought us some hickory nuts one early morning, remember?”
It went well. Even at six years old, I could tell that I’d won over the crowd. Everyone was full of compliments. I can still see Gregory Peck smiling at me paternally, his eyes all crinkled up. Mom was beaming, in her underplayed way. “She’s good, isn’t she? My daughter.”
There was a lot of animated good feeling as the showbiz people filed out, and I was pretty excited about my prospects. “I did it, Mommy, didn’t I? When are we making the film? Am I gonna get paid a lot of money? Will I have to leave school?”
Mom scoffed lightly, and then she assumed what she must have imagined was a gentle tone. “You know, Sachi, you’re not gonna get the part.”
My high spirits took a quick plunge. “I’m not?”
“Of course not. First of all, you’re too young for the part. Second of all, who do you think you are, Shirley Temple? This was just for the experience. I wanted you to learn how to handle rejection.”
Oh.
As it turns out, I didn’t get to process this valuable lesson right away, because, against all odds and my mother’s casual pessimism, they actually offered me the part, but Eguchi-san, who’d come along on the trip, protested the whole idea; she contended that it would be too traumatizing for me—a mere child, Japanese-raised, meek and humble as I was—to be suddenly thrust into the glare and the insanity of Hollywood. It could scar me for life. My mother put up a token argument, but in the end she reluctantly agreed with Eguchi-san.
So I stepped aside. The role moved on to Mary Badham, who was wonderful in the film, and it’s now hard to imagine anyone else having played the part.
The summer of 1961 over, Eguchi-san and I went back to Japan, but this time with an added bonus: Mom was coming with us. She was doing a film called My Geisha, shooting on location in Tokyo. The producer of the film was none other than my own dad, Steve Parker. This was his big bid to be a player in Hollywood. The plot was a typically flimsy 1960s comedy, with my mom playing an American actress who pretends to be a geisha so that she can land a role in a movie being directed by her husband (a vague echo of my parents’ own situation).
I was thrilled to have Mom with me in Japan. She stayed with us at our Tokyo home throughout the shoot (while Miki repaired discreetly to the separate house that Dad had bought for her), and it was so exciting to come home from school every day and find her waiting for me. I had been accustomed to spending every day after school horseback riding—my great passion—but I tossed it over happily for the chance of having that much more time with her.
Mom was more thrilled, I think, to be with Yves Montand, her costar, with whom she was having an affair during the shoot. Montand was married at the time, to the imposing Simone Signoret, but it must have seemed even more imposing that D
ad was sitting right there in the producer’s chair. (Although I’m not sure how much time Dad logged on the actual set, or if he paid even cursory attention to the production. Dad was a wheeler-dealer; and once those wheels and deals were set in motion, he was on to the next challenge.)
Yves Montand had just ended an affair with Marilyn Monroe, and apparently had been an utter cad about it—when she waited outside his airplane in a limousine with champagne, he nonchalantly ignored her. Mom, for all her tough-minded independence, always seemed to find this type of selfish bounder irresistible.
She and Montand bonded in Tokyo, she says in one of her books, because of their both being stranded in an exotic, unfamiliar world—although he had earlier toured Japan with his one-man show, and Mom had been over to Tokyo several times with Dad.
Near the end of the shoot, she discovered that Montand had actually romanced her in response to a wager with my dad. In true Gallic spirit, he’d bet Dad that he could seduce Mom before the shoot was over—and he’d won handily. In a sense, so did Dad; with Mom occupied with Montand, he was free to conduct his own romantic affairs without worry. It was all very French.
It’s interesting in retrospect to view the film’s opening credits: “Shirley MacLaine—Yves Montand—in Steve Parker’s My Geisha.” Dad had really earned his producer credit: he not only produced the film, but he also produced the affair. (How my father, who had never produced a film before, managed to wangle an above-the-title credit, as if he were David O. Selznick, I’ll never know, but it doesn’t surprise me in the least.)
Eventually the movie ended, the affair ended, and Mom went home—to L.A. It caught me by surprise, because I had forgotten that her home wasn’t my home. I’d really bonded with her in those few months. She was living with us at the house, and it was a real treat to see Mom and Dad together. Watching them interacting, smiling at each other, holding hands, I got a sense of what normal family life could be like. Once, I walked in on them in the bedroom to find them spooning in bed. I quickly backed out to give them their privacy, but it gave me a warming glimpse into the sweetness of their intimacy. (I didn’t know she was enjoying the same kind of intimacy with Mr. Montand, of course.)
Mom found great peace, I think, in Japan. She used to stare at the koi pond in the backyard for what seemed like hours. I loved watching her be so calm. I can remember Dad cooking, and taking great joy in preparing a meal for her, and then all of us sitting down together. It was perhaps the last time we were an actual family.
I loved those days, and having Mom with me. I thought she’d be there forever.
After she left, I returned to my old routine: school and horseback riding and Eguchi-san during the day, lemons and loneliness at night.
On some special occasions, Dad and Miki would take me out to a fancy nightclub. This afforded me a rare glimpse into the sophisticated world of “adults.” Dad and Miki would dress to the nines, I would get dolled up in my Sunday best, and we’d hail a cab and sweep up to the nightclub entrance. The doorman would open the car door for us, and we’d strut up the carpet and into another world.
The nightclubs of Tokyo in the 1960s were not much different from their American models. The music was Western and jazzy, the women beautiful, the atmosphere smoky. Cocktails flowed, jewelry flashed, dancers whirled around the floor.
When Dad stepped through the front door, everything seemed to stop. He commanded the room. He was that guy in the movies who, when he suddenly made an entrance, the maître’d would imperiously snap his fingers, the waiters would rush to seat him, and a special table would be placed ringside just for him. Everybody knew Steve Parker. He’d thread through the tables, cigarette in hand, waving and glad-handing. Dad seemed to be connected everywhere; he was the Man.
We’d take our seats, drinks would be ordered, and the entertainment would begin. There were always famous performers appearing at these nightclubs, and they all knew my father. The girl singers would often flirt with him, and sit on his lap between numbers. Miki didn’t seem to mind; it was all in the spirit of fun and good times, and she loved being part of it.
One night Dad took me alone to a different kind of nightclub, off the main drag. It was a small upstairs space like a living room, where everyone sat in armchairs and the atmosphere was cozy and warm. I remember the food was wonderful—little appetizers, garlic cloves pan-fried in sesame oil, super-light tempura, salted squid in squid guts. I also remember that there were no female customers, only men. And the waiters, also male, were completely naked. This afforded them the opportunity to perform a unique service; whenever Dad ordered a scotch and soda, the waiter would hold the drink crotch-high and stir it gently with his penis before serving. I was fascinated. Did this improve the flavor? I wondered. The waiters would perform this function only with cold drinks, of course; the hot sake might have caused some discomfort. And exceptions were made: I remember when the waiter brought me a Shirley Temple, my dad put up a restraining hand—no dick for my daughter, please. I appreciated his delicacy.
This foray into the exotic world of private clubs was kind of fun, but for the most part the nightclub scene left me terminally bored. Oh, it was exciting at first, just being in the middle of all that grown-up energy, but to have to sit there for hours, watching them drink, was crushingly wearisome. Often these were school nights, and I longed to be in bed so I wouldn’t drift off to sleep in class the next day. I remember that everyone in these nightclubs smoked cigarettes—everyone; the thick smoke hanging in the air was overwhelming, and it burned my eyes. I would beg for some coffee ice cream, just so I could stay awake.
Still, I knew there was supposed to be something cool about all this. It was cool that I was just seven or eight years old, cool that Dad was exposing me to this elegant lifestyle, cool that I was taking it all in with the aplomb of a seasoned jet-setter. When all these strange women showered my father with kisses and wiggled their bottoms in his lap and pressed their surging breasts against his cheek, I was supposed to be not only okay with this, but enthusiastic and delighted.
Eguchi-san was not so cool. She was outraged. It was scandalous! Irresponsible! Dragging a young schoolgirl out to these sinful fleshpots on a school night! “I would expect as much from that Miki; she is just a teahouse servant. But what can your father be thinking?”
That was, in a way, the essential question. What was my father thinking?
• • •
I loved my dad, and I lived in terror of him. He was mercurial and moody, and his constant drinking made him unpredictable. Two incidents stick out in my mind from those preadolescent days. One was the Cream Puff Incident.
Cream Puffs were something of a delicacy in Japan. As with Wonder bread, there was no fresh dairy of any kind in the country. No butter, no cheese. We had to drink powdered milk.
Obviously, in a world without cream, you’re not going to find cream puffs. At least not cheaply. Yet Dad loved them, and he usually got what he wanted, so he would often buy fancy gourmet cream puffs at the market.
Or he would make them himself. One afternoon, just for his own pleasure, he whipped up a batch of delicious cream puffs in his kitchen. He took round pastry shells, stuffed them with custard, and topped each with a big dollop of whipped cream. It was a very extravagant whim.
The finished cream puffs were sitting on the kitchen table when I wandered in later. There were about eight of them on the plate, and they looked absolutely delicious. I knew there was no dinner party scheduled for that night; no one was coming over to enjoy these scrumptious treats. That being the case, why not eat one? Or two?
At the most, I had three. There were still about five left.
About an hour or so later, as I sat in the living room, Dad entered. He stood in the doorway a moment. I didn’t look up, but I knew he was there—and I knew why he had come.
After a studied pause, he said thoughtfully, “I wonder what happened to the cream puffs.”
I stiffened. I knew enough not to answer him.
While it seemed that he was being facetious, there was nothing playful in his voice. There was rather an undertone of bottled rage, as though he were a Mob boss brandishing a baseball bat and wondering where his split of the cash was.
He waited. I waited. He sat down and stared at me. I knew he was accusing me, but he wasn’t going to come out and say it. He wanted to make a game out of it.
“They couldn’t have just disappeared,” he went on. Then he gasped, as if a thought had just struck him: “Maybe someone came into the house and took them!” He let that hang in the air a moment. “Do you think that’s what happened?”
Seeing an opening, I jumped at it. “Yes, Daddy, I think someone may have done that.”
He leaned forward eagerly. “Did you see him?”
“Y-yes.”
“Did he come in the front door or the back door?”
I sensed that I was stepping into a trap, so I shrugged weakly and said nothing.
Dad was thoughtful. “Maybe it was a neighbor. Did it look like a neighbor?”
“Maybe.”
Dad frowned. “But why would a neighbor come into the house without knocking and take three cream puffs? No, that can’t be right.” He pondered anew. “Did I miscount? Maybe I made only five cream puffs to begin with.”
Again I leaped at the suggestion. “I think you’re right, Daddy. There were only five.”
He pursed his lips, and furrowed his brow. “But why would I make only five cream puffs? No, I’m pretty sure I made eight. I’m pretty sure.” He stared at me again.