Lucky Me: My Life With--and Without--My Mom, Shirley MacLaine

by Sachi Parker

  I was a little confused. “What? Life is so strange?” She gave me a coaxing nod, so I tried to replicate the way I’d said it, complete with sigh. “Life is so strange…”

  Mom pondered this slowly. “Hmm.”

  What was this about? Was she upset? Had I offended her somehow? I wasn’t calling her strange, after all. She was getting me all nervous.

  “Let’s play a game,” she suggested now. A game? “I want you to go outside and pretend that someone was just hit by a car, and you have to run in and tell me about it.”

  I tried to get this straight. “You want me to go outside…?”

  “Go! Now!” she barked. “Don’t think! Just do it!”

  So I did. I hurried out the door. What was I supposed to do? Oh, right, someone just got hit by a car, and…

  I rushed back into the kitchen. “Oh my God! Mom! Help me! My friend…this car came out of nowhere and ran him down…He’s bleeding…he’s dying…! You have to come right away! Right away!” I was breathless and hysterical, and to my surprise, tears sprang into my eyes.

  Mom was watching me keenly. I could see she was impressed. I could also see that now was not the time to break character. I had to push further.

  “I’m not kidding, Mom! This is serious! This is not a game! My friend is dying! You have to hurry! Come on!” I started pulling on her arm, dragging her toward the door. I finally stopped when we reached the doorway, and I found myself out of breath, but a little exhilarated. It seemed like a pretty good performance.

  Mom was still in nodding mode. “Okay, do it again.”

  “Again?”

  She pointed me out the door.

  So I ran out, went down the stairs, rushed back up the stairs, burst into the kitchen, and went through the whole routine again. “Oh my God! Mom! Help me…!” I went even bigger this time, hitting all the notes, letting my emotions pour out, but controlling them at the same time—in other words, acting.

  Mom took it all in, and then made her pronouncement, which was all the more effective for its quiet restraint: “You’re very talented.”

  I was stunned. “Really? You think so?” Nobody had told me I was talented since 1962, with To Kill a Mockingbird.

  She crooked a finger at me. “Let’s take a walk.”

  I dutifully followed her out of the house, and we started down the road. After a respectful passage of time, I finally asked, “Where are we going?” but Mom wasn’t saying. She liked controlling the situation.

  We stopped finally at a cottage. Mom knocked at the door. A kindly middle-aged woman answered it.

  “Peggy,” Mom said, “I want you to meet my daughter, Sachi. She’s an actress.”

  I felt a thrill go through me. Mom had just told a complete stranger that I was an actress!

  As we entered the woman’s house, Mom explained to me, “Peggy is an acting teacher.” Indeed she was. Peggy Feury was one of the most revered acting teachers on the West Coast. She and her husband ran the Loft Studio in downtown L.A., and she was a charter member of the famous Actors Studio. She had all kinds of young, exciting actors in her stable, and they all loved her.

  I didn’t know all this at the time. If I had, I would have been a basket case, because Mom insisted that I audition for Peggy, right then and there.

  “Now?” It was all too sudden. I was still in a pie-making frame of mind. “Can’t we do it tomorrow?”

  “Peggy’s a very busy woman. So am I. This is your chance.” In other words, now or never. “You have nothing to be scared of.”

  What was I supposed to audition with? I had nothing prepared. Did she want me to do my hysterical car crash routine again? Even I knew that bit probably wouldn’t travel well.

  Mom and Peggy found me something to read. I don’t remember what it was now—one of those boilerplate monologues you find in acting books. I was reading it cold, but I gave it my best shot.

  Peggy was a wonderful audience. She smiled, shook her head in delight, leaned forward, gave a little “go for it” shake of her fists. She was totally present, very supportive. Mom stayed in the background, arms folded, not cheerleading but completely confident that I would deliver.

  When I was finished, Peggy leaned back and smiled warmly. “Would you like to join my acting class, Sachi?”

  It’s funny how the direction of one’s life can spin around and find its true course in an instant. Did I want to join her class? Of course I did. I was an actress, wasn’t I?

  I walked back to Mom’s house on a cloud. I was so excited. “Can you believe it? Peggy Feury wants me in her acting class!” There was only one problem, and Mom was happy to articulate it: “How are you gonna pay for it?”

  She didn’t need to add the disclaimer “Don’t look at me.”

  I couldn’t afford to pay for the lessons. I’d already taken a job teaching English to Japanese children, but that money went toward the household and paying off the Vauxhall. Still, Peggy Feury wanted me to succeed as much as I did, so I worked things out with her. Peggy suffered from narcolepsy; she couldn’t drive a car because of the concern that she might drift off to sleep behind the wheel. So I became her personal driver. I drove her to the studio and back home, and anywhere else she needed to go. I also swept the stage, emptied the garbage, ushered on scene nights, and cleaned the toilets. I was there all the time—and I loved it.

  I’d never had the experience of being a part of the theater before. Yes, I’d been backstage at Mom’s shows in Las Vegas, and on movie sets, and at opening night premieres—I knew about all the flash and the glitz—but I’d never acted in a high school show or a neighborhood theater; I’d never known the excitement and creative joy of working at my craft, bringing a scene to life, being part of an artistic community.

  And I’d never fallen under the spell of a truly gifted teacher. Peggy was the kind of acting mentor who inspired you not through excoriating rants and humiliation, but by creating a safe place where you could fail and soar, take risks, be fearless. She demanded a lot, but she did so in a spirit of trust and respect. As a result, you would do anything for her. There were many wonderful young actors at the Loft—Angelica Huston, Charlie Sheen, Crispin Glover, Michelle Pfeiffer, Sean Penn—and they all revered Peggy. She was a true gift to the acting world.

  Peggy wanted us to put the truth on the stage, stressing the real and the natural over Acting 101 basics. The first person I ever saw do an entire scene with his back to the audience was Crispin Glover. He never once turned around to acknowledge our presence, and it added such power to the scene that it changed my perception about stage acting. One time Sean Penn was playing a homeless person in a show, and he refused to bathe. He would come to class in ragged clothes and greasy hair, stinking to high heaven. Of course, he didn’t care. That was Sean; he didn’t give a shit what anybody thought. I can still smell him. Pierre would have approved.

  In my case, Peggy gave me enormous confidence just by acknowledging that I had talent. At the same time, she recognized that there was something inside me that was blocking me from being completely expressive. “You’re too Japanese, Sachi. You’re holding back as an actress when you should be letting go.”

  I understood what she meant, and I tried to let go, but I couldn’t undo a lifetime of social engineering. Japanese women were expected to behave in a certain way in public. Giving full vent to your emotions simply wasn’t appropriate or even conceivable. I was torn between two mentors: I wanted to please Peggy, but what would Eguchi-san have thought?

  The situation came to a head one day when I was performing a scene in class with another actor. I know it would make the story more interesting if I said it was Sean Penn, but I honestly don’t remember who it was—or what the scene was—but I know it was supposed to be romantic. We were kissing and touching and getting physical and—I couldn’t open my legs. They were shut tight. No matter how passionate the scene grew, I wouldn’t let myself go.

  Peggy called me on this. “Sachi, why are your legs closed? Y
ou’re attracted to this man, you’re feeling sexual, your body should be inviting him. Instead you’re locked up like a bank vault. Come on, spread your legs a little, enjoy the moment.”

  I couldn’t. In spite of Peggy, in spite of all my classmates staring at me as if I were from another planet, in spite of my mom’s long shadow, I couldn’t. Now, you know my history; you can’t say that I was prudish. I wanted to do what Peggy asked: I wanted to spread my legs wide, I wanted to show that I could surmount my hang-ups and be true to the dramatic situation.

  But I couldn’t.

  Peggy was not going to let this pass. She came up onstage and faced the audience. “See, we have a Japanese woman here,” she explained. “She looks Irish, but she’s Japanese. And she can’t spread her legs. So I’m going to help her. I’m going to pry those legs open if I have to use a crowbar.”

  Peggy grabbed my knees and forced them apart, straining like Samson at the pillars of Gaza. I was shocked, and I actually felt myself fighting against it, but Peggy prevailed, spreading my legs wide open and holding them there. “Now say the line,” she commanded.

  And I said the line—whatever it was—and it worked. It flowed. Everything in the scene made sense, and in that instant, for the first time, I understood acting. Peggy had unlocked something deep within me, she’d exorcised some demon I didn’t even know I had, and it would never haunt me again. I remember Angelica Huston coming up to me afterward and raving about my instant metamorphosis. “You just opened up like a flower. It was like night and day. You were a different person.”

  And I was. I have to say, from that moment on, I was extremely sexual onstage. I had no qualms about expressing myself physically or emotionally. If the script said we were grabbing each other’s crotches, then that’s what we were doing. Even if I had to go topless (as I did a few years later, in The Lulu Plays), I didn’t bat an eyelash—even with my two fried eggs.

  Peggy was such a remarkable teacher. Not the least of her talents was an ability to fall into a narcoleptic nap in class, to completely sleep through an acting scene, and still, afterward, give a perfect moment-by-moment critique. She appeared to be fully asleep, but somehow she heard every word, beat, and inflection. It was scary.

  Like so many other aspects of show business, an acting class becomes like a family. You trust your partners with your deepest emotions, and wind up knowing all kinds of intimate things about one another. You work together in intense dramatic situations, and then you go out to drink and unwind and laugh at one another’s jokes. There are romances, breakups, and long confessionals at the local bar. You borrow money from each other; you get on each other’s nerves. Once, Michelle Pfeiffer loaned me a green dress for an acting scene. I didn’t return it for a long time, and I think she’s still pissed off at me.

  Of all the talented actors in Peggy’s class, there was one who caught my newly liberated eye. His name was David Weininger, and he was a young but seasoned actor who understood his craft and was a thorough professional. He was also very sweet, and we hit it off immediately. I would say we were just like brother and sister, except that eventually we found ourselves involved in a relationship. Don’t worry: there was no bait and switch here; he wasn’t a Luke or a Jeffrey. He was a genuine nice guy through and through.

  David was my true bridge from Japan to America. He spent hours and hours explaining American culture to me. It was through him that I came to understand how my native country worked.

  It didn’t happen overnight. One time he took me to see Richard Pryor in concert. I was appalled: here was this man onstage, using the foulest language imaginable, and everyone around me was hysterical with laughter, rolling in the aisles. It incensed me; I was personally insulted. I thought, This is the rudest person in the world, and these people around me are just as rude. The whole spectacle filled me with disgust.

  This amused David to no end, of course. He explained to me that this was just the raw energy of American humor. The offensiveness was what made it funny.

  I didn’t get it. Saying mean things and making people uncomfortable didn’t seem very funny at all —at least, not the way I was brought up.

  “But you’re not where you were brought up anymore, Sachi,” David said. “You’re in America.”

  It took me a while to reconcile myself to this reality. Surely I could hold on to the precepts and values I grew up with—humility, acceptance, self-effacement—and still find success in Los Angeles. Right?

  The first crack in my Japanese edifice was a tiny one, but it was the tremor that presaged a major plate shift. I was talking to David on the phone one day, and he was waxing a bit pompous about a new experimental play he was performing in, and how it might finally put him on the map. Just from the sound of it, I could tell the play was a turkey. “Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically. “The studios are going to be burning up your phone line.”

  David gasped. “What did you say?” he asked. “Are you being sarcastic?” I giggled nervously, hoping I hadn’t offended him, but he was thrilled. “Oh my God, listen to you—you’ve become an American. That’s so cool!”

  “Really?” I asked timidly. “You think that was good?”

  “That was great!” He laughed. “Sachi the wiseass! We have to celebrate!” He was genuinely delighted for me. I’d had a breakthrough! Maybe I could make it in this country after all.

  I had another breakthrough when I was driving home in my beat-up car on the Santa Monica Freeway. I needed to change lanes and exit, but no one would let me in, no one would slow down, no one would give me the courtesy wave. I was boiling with rage, even though I knew this was par for the course on the freeway—it’s every girl for herself, and the only way to change lanes is to barrel in, and fuck everybody else—and that’s exactly how it erupted from my mouth: “Fuck you!” I started screaming. “Get the fuck out of my way so I can get in there, you asshole!” It’s the only way to drive in L.A., and it felt so good. I understood how cathartic and empowering a well-placed obscenity could be.

  So now I was cursing and being sarcastic. Mom would have been so proud.

  I wasn’t seeing Mom all that often, because a few months after I started Peggy Feury’s class, I moved in with David. I soon discovered that, although he was eager to instruct me in American mores, he really enjoyed having a faux-Japanese girlfriend. I was always cooking for him, cleaning up after him, deferring to him. It was never his turn to do the dishes. He loved it. David was a wonderful guy, mind you, but he was still an actor, and he enjoyed being taken care of.

  In all fairness, though, he took care of me, too. He was very sensitive to my emotional needs, appreciative of my budding talent, and ever trying to build up my self-esteem. He knew when to laugh with me, and when to give me a constructive kick in the behind. He was my best friend, and still is.

  I would guess he got his nurturing instincts from his father, Dr. Benjamin Weininger, a revolutionary therapist and a very brilliant man. Dr. Weininger had offices in L.A., and he was legendary for his ability to reach through to subjects who seemed mentally and emotionally beyond hope. He was something of a miracle worker.

  I saw the wondrous results of his therapeutic techniques firsthand when my mom came to David with a problem: a friend of hers, a very famous film director, had a daughter with severe emotional problems. She was acting out in bizarre ways, walking backward, pulling hunks of hair from her head. They’d been trying for years, since her childhood, to find some kind of treatment for her, but nothing had worked—and now she was a young woman, with a bleak, unpromising life ahead of her. Mom had heard of David’s father and his seemingly miraculous cures: Could he help?

  Dr. Weininger asked them to meet him at his office at the Southern California Counseling Center, which was down on Pico Boulevard. David and I were waiting on the sidewalk when Mom and the director pulled up in a town car. I could see from the looks on both their faces as they stepped out and surveyed the crumbling neighborhood that they were sure they’d made a wrong turn so
mewhere. Then out came Dr. Weininger, dressed like an old bohemian hippie, with jeans and long hair and bare feet. He didn’t look like a world-renowned therapist, but then again, he had survived Auschwitz, and he didn’t care what he looked like.

  The director’s daughter got out of the car now, and walked into the clinic backward. Dr. Weininger made no comment as he accompanied her. I could see the hope fading in the film director’s eyes. This would be another cruel disappointment, he was sure.

  Five hours later, the daughter emerged from the office, completely changed in aspect: no bizarre behavior, no walking backward, no hair pulling. She seemed like a normal, healthy girl. And the cure lasted: today, thirty-five years later, she’s still doing fine. It seemed like nothing short of a miracle.

  Mom was astounded. “What did you do?” she asked Dr. Weininger. She had to know.

  “I went to her level,” he said.

  Tellingly, he didn’t say he went down to her level. He didn’t make value judgments. He showed her the respect of meeting her where she was, and seeing what she saw.

  Perhaps that’s how David managed to handle me so well. He went to my level. He looked at the world through my eyes, and comprehended it the way I did. That made all the difference. Many years ago I’d scored high on my Qantas test for my ability to empathize. Now, for the first time, someone was empathizing with me, and I realized how important that was, and how much I’d needed it.

  • • •

  A terrible postscript to the days I spent studying with Peggy Feury: in November 1985, she was driving home to Malibu from the studio when she fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into oncoming traffic. The car exploded into flames. Her body was so charred that they could identify her only through her dental records. No one knew why she was driving in the first place. She was supposed to have a personal driver. That used to be my job.

  Chapter 13

  “That’s George McFly?”

  Nineteen eighty three was a true annus mirabilis for Mom. Not one but two life-changing projects came down the pike, Terms of Endearment and Out on a Limb: her Academy Award–winning movie, and her most controversial book. She’d been famous for twenty-five years; now she was going to become an icon. I’m not sure if that’s what she wanted, but that’s what she was going to get.