My next task was to find someone willing to run with me, so I asked Mike Farrell to run for the board with an eye toward being my first vice president. Mike had been and still is an idol of mine; he’s the kind of guy who never backs down from his beliefs. I figured anyone as smart and savvy as he was would probably tell me to go pound sand, but he surprised me by saying yes. I could barely speak after hanging up with him, I was so elated. I turned to Bruce and said, “Holy shit! I must be doing something right.”
Bruce, who in the larger world has very different political views than either Mike or me, said, “Jesus, Melissa, that’s huge. Congratulations.”
In July, we began the campaign, which consisted largely of speaking at gatherings people hosted at their homes, sending e-mails to SAG members, and taking out ads. My day began at five in the morning and lasted late into the night. I relied on Mike, Kevin, Richard, Amy Aquino, and other allies in Hollywood. In New York I had the Pauls and Eileen Henry, to name a few, and in the Regional Branch Division I had Cece DuBois and Mary McDonald-Lewis, among others.
The hours were long, the work was hard, and all of it was exciting. Sometimes it was even fun, like the time Paul Christie conjured up a wise shaman from a drainpipe in his building who advised our tribe. The drainpipe, or DP, also gave us tribal nicknames. Mine was Fullpinttalkslikepauls because I cussed like the Pauls in New York.
The election, as the Los Angeles Times described it, was basically “a referendum on the Daniels regime,” though I tried to inject my own vision by emphasizing the need to negotiate, using a strike as a last resort, and trying to unify the divisions that were hurting the union. My supporters included Debra Messing, Tobey Maguire, and my former beau Rob Lowe. Valerie boasted Marty Sheen, Gregory Peck, and Sarah Jessica Parker.
In the meantime, the national board met one more time, this time to decide whether or not to hire Bob Pisano as our new national executive director. The meeting, as usual, went on and on for needless hours as people discussed the pros and cons of hiring Bob. In the end, Bob was hired. His first day of work was to be that coming Tuesday. It would turn out that Bob’s first assignment on that day would be to close the New York office.
Bob’s first day was September 11. The events of that day changed the country and the world, and they changed my campaign into one about banding together and perseverance.
I got up that morning at six o’clock to read my e-mails. I had just clicked on a news alert on my AOL homepage about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center when Bruce came downstairs for breakfast. We turned on the TV minutes before the second plane crashed into the other tower. Like everyone else in America, we spent the rest of the day glued to the TV, in a state of shock and disbelief, crying and holding on to each other and watching the replays and reports over and over again. I thought for sure there would be strikes in Chicago and Los Angeles.
Our house was normally in the flight path out from Los Angeles International Airport. Planes taking off flew over our house all day and night as they climbed out across the ocean and made the sweeping turn back toward land. But in the hours and days after the 9/11 attacks, planes were grounded. There wasn’t a sound in the sky. When I went outside to smoke a cigarette, I didn’t hear anything but an eerie silence. That was the scariest part. Life had changed.
I had speaking engagements scheduled, but I didn’t want to go; I just wanted to crawl into a shell and wait for the next disaster. Mike Farrell talked me out of canceling them by explaining that the point of terrorism was to terrorize people, cities, and an entire country to the point where they ceased to function. If I canceled, he said, they would win.
I more than understood and pushed through my fear, working harder than before while adding a message about working together through difficult situations. I hoped it would resonate to ordinary people who had felt the same way I had. I was disappointed when Valerie refused my invitation to debate the issues. Instead, she and her camp attacked me as a traitor for violating rule one when I had made Ice House with Bo in 1989. They also accused me of owning a Canadian production company named after a daughter I supposedly had. Insanity!
I went to Dave McNary at Daily Variety about the first charge, explaining I had starred in my former husband’s movie out of love for him and ignorance of the rules. Not only had I been punished a decade earlier, I had chaired the Young Performers Committee to ensure other child actors turning eighteen didn’t repeat the same mistake. As was typical, I was misquoted and Mr. McNasty made it sound like I had intentionally violated rule one because “we all do foolish things when we are in love.” It wasn’t the first time I had been a victim of yellow journalism and it wouldn’t be the last.
My skin turned out to be pretty thick. I was worried, though, that the combination of inaccurate press and the attacks from “the Valiban,” as we dubbed my opponent’s team, would damage my credibility with the SAG membership. Fortunately, her bitter campaign didn’t seem to register with members. On November 2, I captured 45 percent of the vote, versus the 39 percent my opponent received. It was a clear and convincing victory, which we celebrated late into the night.
By the next morning, though, the papers announcing my election also reported the elections committee, loaded with Valerie Harper supporters, was calling for a new election, citing irregularities in the voting process. Apparently, ballots mailed to New York members didn’t have the same signature line as the ballots sent to members in Los Angeles. The elation I felt the night before after winning turned to anger. It took a while before a new election was officially approved and set for early March 2002. By then I was livid about the whole thing. Having heard Fred Savage from The Wonder Years refer derisively to me in a board meeting as “the maybe president” made my skin crawl. Soon after the election, I came into work and sat down at my desk in my SAG office at union headquarters to prepare for an ATA meeting when I saw John McGuire, the associate national executive director, walk by. I called out to him and asked if he had a minute to talk. He came in and shut the door.
A lawyer with movie-star looks, John was like the institutional memory of SAG. He represented the union internationally. He was a calm, reasonable man who rarely lost his temper, and when he did, it was for good reason.
“They’re rerunning my election,” I said. “What the hell? What is this about?”
I ranted for a few minutes, unloading a truckload of anger, frustration, and confusion while John sat across from me and nodded. When I finally paused for a breath, he asked, “Are you done?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re going to win,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Then he stood up and walked out of my office.
I focused on work. While helping to negotiate the ATA agreement between SAG and agents, which, if passed, would allow limited investment by advertising companies in agencies in exchange for putting money in SAG’s health and pension fund, and a commitment to fight the exodus of productions from the United States, I was notified that Karl Rove, deputy chief of staff to President George Bush, was coming to Los Angeles to meet with the heads of the entertainment industry.
He wanted to discuss ways that Hollywood could help assist the country’s mood as it recovered from the 9/11 attacks.
The secret meeting took place at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills. Attendees included chiefs from all the studios, networks, and agencies, as well as legendary titans like agent–power broker Lou Wasserman. It also included the presidents and national executive directors of the unions, including Bob Pisano and me. The room was somber and serious as Rove led the discussion. Ideas were floated from every corner. Jeffrey Katzenberg offered to send Shrek DVDs to families who’d lost loved ones in the attacks; other studio chiefs promised similar gifts to our soldiers. Then I offered the Screen Actors Guild’s support and participation.
There was an awkward silence. Of course, everyone in the room was aware of my reelection situation; even the CNN news crawl informed viewers of the battle
between Half Pint and Rhoda. Then Rove said, “Thank you very much for that input, Ms. Gilbert.” Then, with a puckish smile, he added, “Also, if you need a good election attorney, we have one.”
His reference to Bush’s contested victory over Al Gore in the 2000 presidential election turned the room upside down with laughter. I was the only one who didn’t find it hilarious. I thought about how much I hated the people who had embarrassed my union.
At the end of the year, Elliott Gould, who had been elected SAG’s recording secretary, decided to have a kumbaya conference call with all of the candidates running for president, secretary, or treasurer. In addition to Valerie and me, the roster included law professor and labor activist Eugene Boggs, and Angel Tompkins, an actress who changed her name to Angeltompkins so she would be listed first on the SAG ballot, which presented candidates in alphabetical order. There was also Kent McCord, Kevin Kilner, and Amy Aquino, who were running for secretary and treasurer.
On the call, Elliott tried to set some ground rules for the campaign to keep it from spiraling down into the gutter. Valerie didn’t help matters by jumping in and saying she didn’t think I should be showing up at events and representing myself as the Screen Actors Guild president because, as she claimed, I wasn’t really the president. She recited a laundry list of don’ts. She also had the audacity to claim I was giving out awards to performers with disabilities and appearing at other events merely to get myself elected. I countered by saying I was, in fact, the president, as the board had agreed, until the rerun election told us otherwise, and so for the next three months I was going to act accordingly.
I was professional on the line but I was in tears when I hung up the phone. I called Kevin Kilner right after the conference call and bawled into the receiver. Not very presidential, I knew. But tough. I could not believe the blatant questioning of my integrity. I would maintain my duties, but I made it very clear that the opposition candidates should steer clear of me until the election was over. I hung up and told Bruce it was too hard. Then I went upstairs to tuck Michael into bed. My six-year-old noticed my eyes were red.
“Mommy, have you been crying?” he asked.
I said yeah.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I was on the phone with people from SAG, and the lady who wants to be president said some things that hurt my feelings.”
Michael took a deep breath, gave me a hug, and said, “Mom, she’s just jealous of you.”
That was the last time anything SAG-related made me cry. For the next three months, I helped SAG wrangle its way through the ATA mess until there was an agreement. The election was at the beginning of March 2002. Ballots were counted two days before the SAG Awards, the union’s annual celebration of outstanding performances of its members. Whoever won the election would attend the rehearsal the next day and then the awards show on Sunday, which meant I had to prepare for either winning the election and attending the awards show or losing and watching the gala from home.
Wanting to be closer to town, I decamped with my family to the Beverly Hilton Hotel, where its owner, Merv Griffin, a family friend, generously let us have a penthouse suite. On the day of the election, my family, friends, and supporters waited in the suite with us while the votes were counted. SAG’s national executive director and CEO Bob Pisano let me know the turnout for the election was the largest in SAG history. He said the media had turned the headquarters into a zoo.
Ordinarily, results were announced around seven o’clock, but by nine that night we still hadn’t heard anything. My mother and her husband, Warren, were attending a black-tie function downstairs for Rudy Giuliani, and they kept running up to the suite for news. The wait was nerve-racking. On the bright side, though, I was so stressed-out that I was the thinnest I had been in years. There’s always a silver lining.
At close to two in the morning, my cell phone rang. It was Pisano. He asked what I was doing, as if I would be doing something at that hour other than waiting by the phone for the results.
“I’m standing here with everybody,” I said.
“Well, congratulations,” he said. “This is awesome news.”
Normally, a member of the election committee would call with the election results. Since I hadn’t received that call yet, I said, “What are you talking about?”
“Oh shit,” he said. “You haven’t gotten the call yet, have you?”
“No,” I said, looking around the suite at everyone anxiously staring at me. “What do you know?”
“You won,” he said.
“By how much?” I asked.
“About fifteen thousand,” he said.
I calmly thanked him, then hung up. Everybody asked me whom I’d spoken to, and when I said it was Bob, they lost interest, since they knew he wasn’t the official call. Then I said, “He knows. I won.” This was met by a collective scream, and I burst into tears in a delayed joyful reaction.
I’d won!
Indeed, the official call came a minute later. As Bob had said, the results weren’t close. I had taken 56.6 percent of the vote, compared to Valerie’s 33.4 percent. I felt vindicated, drained, and elated all at the same time. For the next several hours, the phone rang off the hook. Later that morning, I gave a press conference, declaring the victory a mandate for change.
“I’m upset we had to go through this again,” I said. “It was a big waste of money, time, and effort. But the silver lining is that so many members voted in the election. I hope that’s a sign the members can put aside differences, come together, and accomplish some great and necessary things.”
If the previous weeks had been awful, the SAG Awards made up for it. My dress was an unusual off-the-shoulder brown full-length gown. It was also leather, which was a conscious decision on my part: I wanted to look pretty, yet tough. The red carpet was nuts. My victory had made headlines all over the world and now every media outlet wanted to talk to me. It was actually kind of scary, but I was on the arm of my incredibly strong and handsome husband, who kept gently nudging me forward.
The SAG Awards is a cozy affair; actors fill the front tables, eat dinner, and visit between commercials. And trust me, if you want to have a good party, invite two hundred actors and put a couple of bottles of wine on each table.
At one point I left to have a cigarette. When I came back, Bruce had an odd look on his face. Apparently while I was gone Kiefer Sutherland, who was also at our table, had leaned over to him and confessed that he was in love with me, and had been in love with me since we were kids, but he’d never had the courage to tell me.
“He said I was a lucky man,” said Bruce.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Of course. I know how lucky I am.”
I’m the lucky one, I thought. I married an amazing man.
As the SAG president, I was scheduled to give a speech, and I was uptight about delivering it. I made a sarcastic crack to Bruce during dinner about this being a fine time to be sober. Moments later, I was dragged backstage and then I heard myself introduced. Nervously, I walked onstage, where I was met by thundering applause that turned into whoops and chants, and finally a standing ovation led by Joe Pantoliano, followed by Jack Nicholson. I was so overwhelmed I almost fell apart on live TV. But I delivered my remarks and held it all together.
Back at my table, I leaned into Bruce and said, “This may be one of the biggest things I’ve done in my entire life.” He put his arm around me and said, “I’m so proud of you. I can’t believe you did this.” Neither could I.
Apparently neither could James Gandolfini, who I hadn’t seen since we acted together in the basement theater beneath the Trocadero bar in New York. At the after-party, he barreled across the floor, scooped me into his arms, and tossed me in the air like I was a beach ball. He put me down and said, “Congratulations, Grandma!” Grandma? I don’t know what he meant by that. I didn’t care either. It was the best election party ever.
At the next board meeting, I banged my gavel and open
ed discussions on the ATA agreement. It was immediately combative, and I had to repeatedly call the room to order. Kent McCord actually challenged my friend Peter Onorati to step outside and fight. It was surreal. Staff members were brought to tears, some asked where their thirty pieces of silver were. Esai Morales capped off the classy gathering by saying, “It’s like I’m bent over this desk and I can feel the tip, man.” Charming!
After this final salvo, I thought about calling in a shrink or my son’s kindergarten teacher to give the worst offenders a time-out; we needed more than me as Madam Half Pint banging a gavel. During a break, I stepped off to the side and Valerie Harper sidled up to me and said, “Isn’t it just awful the way people are fighting?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, better you than me, kiddo,” she said.
I turned my head to the side and looked at her with absolute shock and more than a little disrespect. If she felt that way, why had we just put our union through the cost, effort, and embarrassment of a second election? Had she even wanted the presidency? Or had she truly been a puppet?
Then came the debate before the membership. What a circus that was! Kent McCord and Scott Wilson presented one side. Kevin Spacey and I were supposed to speak on the other side, but Mike Farrell had to step in for Kevin after his mother took ill. Afterward, Kevin called me and asked how it had gone. I described the insane debate during which Kent had, at one point, recited the Boy Scouts oath while I had been loudly booed every time I opened my mouth, and how in the end, I felt, we lost.
Prairie Tale: A Memoir Page 32