I was punished, of course. My mom, in her nightgown, answered the door and saw a policeman with her fourteen-year-old daughter, who she thought was upstairs asleep, and was speechless. Rebellious Andrea must have been the culprit who organized this dangerous outing. Sweet Tina got off without much reprimanding. I lost my privileges for a month.
Feisty. That is a perfect way to describe my friend. After high school, Tina went to nursing college. There she met her future husband, Jim, who was studying to be a doctor. After Tina’s graduation, they moved to Manhattan, where Jim began his residency. I had just moved to New York, after graduating from college and touring with my first professional show, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. As I didn’t yet have an apartment, Tina and Jim invited me to stay with them. Tina had recently given birth to a baby girl, Jessa. They lived on the Upper West Side in a high-rise apartment with the baby and a parrot she had found walking on Madison Avenue. Tina rescued the bird and brought him home. What was the parrot’s name? Oh, I wish I could ask Tina right now. I wish I could pick up the phone and ask her. We have loved telling that story over the years. I fear she could not find the words now to tell me. Her speech is limited and her memory going.
I stayed with Jim and Tina on and off from 1969 to 1970. During that time, Jim was sent a draft notification. They had a new baby. He was in medical school. Tina didn’t want Jim to be drafted. She did not want to lose her husband to the war. She took just enough pills to make it look like a suicide attempt so that Jim would be kept from going overseas. She was a nurse, after all, and she knew what she was doing. I thought it was the most brave and selfless act anyone could perform. She was singular in her devotion to the people she loved.
It is still grey and rainy and overcast and gloomy. The train’s rocking motion is comforting, like the rocking of a baby in its mother’s arms. It feels safe and nurturing and calming. And the past seems present and clear. All the many different memories are one. Our youth. Our lost youth. Tina’s and my youth. Our lives. Our experiences. Our love for each other, one memory.
Thirty minutes to go to Boston. I have spent a good portion of my life running away. I can’t today. I don’t want to. Tina, who kept me real during my youth, deserves me to be real today.
God give me the strength to be there for my friend so that our youth will endure. And Tina will remain alive forever.
Tina and I and her family spent the day together at her home in Needham. She knew who I was but never said my name. She told me over and over again that she loved me. We laughed and looked at old high school yearbooks, but I think that for most of the time she did not recall the people in the photos. A couple of times she recognized a face and I told her the name as she nodded in delight. Maybe it is a good thing that her memory is going rapidly. Maybe she does not realize that her death is imminent. She smiled from the time I arrived at 10 a.m. until I left at five that evening. She is nurturing and loving and will be a caring mother until her last breath. I did not say I would see her again. I cried, though I’m not sure she understood why. I told her I loved her over and over. When we went on a walk around her neighbourhood, away from her children, I asked her how she felt. She kept saying that her kids were happy. Nothing about herself. Just her kids. I sensed her increased frustration at her inability to communicate. I hugged her and said I was so grateful that we were together, that we should enjoy every moment in the present while we waited for a miracle. I think that she understood. She stopped and looked at me, and I felt, for that one moment that day, an unspoken acknowledgement between us of the truth.
That was the last time I saw Tina. The final image I have of her is her standing at the front door of her little house in Needham, with Josh and Jessa and the grandkids by her side. She was waving and smiling as I got in the taxi that would take me back to the train station. I kept looking at her as the taxi drove away. Tina never stopped waving and smiling until the car pulled out of sight.
Tina died a few weeks later, on September 14, 2012. Her daughter-in-law, Alecia, sent me this text:
Tina passed around 9 p.m., very peacefully and waiting until all four of her grandbabies were tucked into bed. We are happy she is whole again, but miss her already. Lots of love to you, her dear friend.
On December 2, 2012, Tina would have turned sixty-six years old. On that date I was performing in Boston, at the American Repertory Theater in the pre-Broadway tryout of Pippin. Tina’s kids and grandkids were in the audience. The character I played in Pippin was Berthe, Pippin’s grandmother. There is a lyric in the song “No Time at All” that Berthe sings:
I’ve known the fears of sixty-six years
I’ve had troubles and tears by the score.
But the only thing I’d trade them for
Is sixty-seven more.
That night I sang the song to Tina. I looked up into the rafters and imagined her there, waving and laughing.
Oh, honey. Oh, honey, sixty-seven more, she was saying. You deserve that. I love you, honey. I love you.
Part Five
My First Head Shots, Circa 1970
The Innocent Girl Next Door
The Girl on the Phone Next Door
The Surprised Girl Next Door
The Nude Girl with the Medical Alert Bracelet Next Door*
* This last photo says, “I’m Hot, I’m Single, and I’m Allergic to Penicillin.”
Yes!
I was asked to replace the renowned Canadian filmmaker Deepa Mehta, who was bedridden with the flu. She was to present the Best Canadian Film Award at the annual Toronto Film Critics Association (TFCA) gala dinner at the historic Carlu in downtown Toronto. On the day of the event, the organizers asked me to step in. Under usual circumstances, with such short notice I would have declined, if for no other reason than, with the holidays barely over, none of my clothes fit. And I had to look good at this event. Every Toronto film critic was going to be there. I did not want to give them ammunition to attack my fragile ego with disparaging remarks about my appearance. Many lauded Canadian directors would be present: Toronto’s own David Cronenberg, and two hot Quebec filmmakers, Philippe Falardeau and Jean-Marc Vallée. I had to impress them. I was looking for work, after all, and would have killed to be in one of their magnificent films. Of course, I wanted to look my best. My insecurities about my body ran rampant. Who was going to cast a bloated actor hungry for work? Why had I fed that hunger, over the holidays, with unlimited supplies of Timbits? Why were layers of doughnut grease still lodged in the crevices of my chin? Also present would be press and photographers and television cameras. I certainly didn’t need one more bad photo on Wireimage.com.
So I did what I always do when I have to make a decision. I called my sister, the voice of reason.
“Of course you have to do this. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a good audience for you. Everyone thinks of you for television and stage. The film community needs to know you’re still out there. It’s great exposure. Do it.”
Why was I being so neurotic about my appearance? As far as I knew, my looks had never gotten me a job before, even with the minimal cosmetic surgery I have had done. Yes, “conservative procedures” have been performed on me over the years to keep up with my youthful energy. At least, that was my rationalization. But to my knowledge, none of it led to more opportunity. All it did was force me to find more work, to pay off the cosmetic-procedure bills.
But back to the TFCA event. Once my sister convinced me to say yes, I started to write down some jokes, some material for the evening. Then it dawned on me. What material? What the hell do I have in common with Toronto film critics? Why did they ask me to present an award? I am so not part of the film community in Toronto. It would be like asking Conrad Black to host the Tonys.
Aside from Ivan Reitman’s 1973 horror film Cannibal Girls, in which Eugene Levy and I starred, and in which I dined on Eugene’s body parts at the end of the movie (more on that later); Bob Clark’s 1974 sorority horror film Black Christmas, in which I, along with sorori
ty sister Margot Kidder, were strangled by a psychopathic pervert who lived in the attic; and Mary Walsh’s 2006 comedy Young Triffie’s Been Made Away With, in which I played a crazy, drug-addicted wife of a drunk Newfoundland doctor, I had never appeared in another Canadian film.
It was 2012, however, the year I vowed to myself, to my agent, to my manager, and to my sister to say yes to everything that was offered to me. It was clear that, after a long career of saying no, I had to bravely start saying yes. The new me was committed to showing up, putting one foot ahead of the other, having fun, and letting go of the results. As Woody Allen said, 99 percent of success is just showing up. And with the insight of my astrologer, Althea, it became even more evident at my January 1, 2012, reading that it was time to change. She told me I had chosen a career path in which I was comfortable hovering under the radar of success. I had not allowed myself to climb to the top and stay there. It was time to believe in myself. She asked that every time I had an insecure thought, I draw a big X over the thought. It was time to stop thinking I had to please anyone but myself.
So, armed with positively aligned planets, I drew an X over my body thoughts, put on my loose-fitting short red party dress, glued on a couple of eyelashes, and started writing some jokes. Even though the organizers had told me that all I had to do was announce the nominees and the winners, they also added, “But feel free to crack some jokes.” Cracking jokes does not come easily to me, contrary to what you may think. It takes work to come up with funny material without writers … in front of prospective employers. Okay, wait, now I was doing what I always do: worrying about what the audience may think. I just put an X over that thought. A medium-size X, but it was a beginning. I was going to follow in the footsteps of Ricky Gervais: extemporaneously ad lib brilliant remarks—and I would do it without help from a staff of writers. I was going to trust myself in the moment to come up with something hilarious and entertaining.
And by God, that’s what I did. And it worked. I told a couple of the written jokes. I read a letter from Christopher Plummer, who couldn’t be there. I read it like I thought Mr. Plummer would read it, overarticulating and emphasizing every sincere word on the page. I didn’t do it to get a laugh. But it did. Now I was on an ad libbing roll.
I then read the names of the three best Canadian films of 2011 and their directors. Philippe Falardeau for Monsieur Lazhar, Jean-Marc Vallée for Café de Flore, and David Cronenberg for A Dangerous Mind. I was about to open the envelope and announce the winner when it was brought to my attention that I had said one of the titles incorrectly. A Dangerous Method was the name of David Cronenberg’s film, not A Dangerous Mind.
“Oh dear,” I gasped out loud. “I have made a terrible mistake and I apologize, Mr. Cronenberg. The name of your film is, of course, A Dangerous Method, not A Dangerous Mind. Now you will never cast me in one of your films.” The audience laughed. “What can I do to repay you? I’ll do anything. All night. Anything. Believe me, I’m sixty-five, time is running out, whatever you want.” The audience was really laughing now. I realized I had let my age slip out, loudly, in an ad libbing moment of terror, over three mics and on camera, in front of every critic, every producer, and three of the most distinguished directors in Canadian film.
At that point, did any of the cosmetic work matter?
No, of course not. Here’s what mattered. I said yes to life. Instead of staying home and watching a rerun of Duck Dynasty, I showed up. I was myself. I had fun. I had no expectations. I felt honoured to be a part of the TFCA Awards. Brian Johnson, the president of the TFCA, thanked me profusely for “stepping in and being the trooper I was.” And he added, “You killed.” Both Monsieur Falardeau and Monsieur Vallée introduced themselves to me and, independent of each other, said they were big fans. In their beautiful French-Canadian accents, they had me at “pardon.” One of the most successful producers in Canada asked me to lunch to discuss ideas for a television show. I am booked to host another gala. I am booked to be a guest on three talk shows. I’m having coffee with a young writer about a film he has written, in which he would like me to play a part. Someone told me I had great legs. Two women came up to me and said they loved that I had said my age out loud. It was empowering for all us women, they exclaimed. I also found out that Mr. Cronenberg had been in the washroom during my faux pas and wasn’t aware of anything I had said. I did not destroy my chances of being in one of his films.
No one commented on the Botox on my forehead, nor on the grease around my chin. No one said they thought I didn’t belong at a Toronto film event. I hovered over the radar of success that night. And it felt good. Someone sent me a photo from the event. It was on Wireimage.com. I was standing next to David Cronenberg, who had his arm around me. I was smiling, and my red dress shimmered. I hope Deepa Mehta is over her flu, and that she’s healthy. I’m grateful she gave me the opportunity to say yes at the start of a new year. It’s going to be a good one for character actresses. I can feel it.
Old Lady Parts #2 *
The other day I was combing theatre websites looking for my name—’cause what could be a more constructive use of time?—and I came across an article that began with Andrea Martin has made a career out of playing old ladies. At first I was mortified. How could anyone have pigeonholed me and my illustrious career so inaccurately? I then did a quick mental survey about the roles I had played on stage, and to my shock, the article was right.
In the ’70s, when I was in my twenties, I was cast as, quite literally, the Old Lady in Candide, directed by Lotfi Mansouri at the Stratford Festival in Canada. On Broadway, I performed Aunt Eller in Oklahoma!, Golde in Fiddler on the Roof, Frau Blucher in Young Frankenstein, and yet again, the Old Lady in Hal Prince’s Candide on Broadway.
Old Lady
Golde
Frau Blücher
I played the part of Juliette, the old servant, in Exit the King; Dolly Levi in The Matchmaker; and an old drunk piano teacher in On the Town.
Yes, many roles I’ve played have been women older than me, but I don’t think of them as old lady parts. I think of them as character parts. A character part is the sassy sidekick, the nosy neighbour, the town whore, the Jewish yenta—you get the point. I don’t play the romantic lead who gets to make out with Ryan Gosling. I’m the housekeeper who walks in on them, does a spit take, trips over Mr. Gosling’s underwear, and crawls on all fours out the door. (By the way, this movie hasn’t been written yet, but I already hear that Betty White has beaten me out for the role.) I love playing character parts because you don’t have to carry the show and you get all the great laughs.
Looking back, I realize it all started when I was a little kid. My first role ever was the Fairy Godmother in the Children’s Theatre production of Cinderella in Portland, Maine. I was nine years old and already playing character parts.
Thirty years later, I played another fairy godmother on SCTV, Mrs. Falbo.
Every character role I’ve ever played has been rooted in my childhood: here I am as a forty-five-year-old Greek woman, Aunt Voula, in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
Here I am thirty-three years earlier at my high school prom, looking like a forty-five-year-old Greek woman.
Forty-five year-old Greek woman
Forty-five year-old Greek woman
Lucy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown was my first professional character role.
After that tour ended, I moved to Toronto, where I heard there were auditions for the Toronto premiere of Godspell. I had seen the show in New York and thought I’d be right for it, basically because it seemed that you didn’t need to be a good singer or dancer to be in the show. It was a musical full of character actors with big personalities. I knew I was perfect for it. However, they did not. When I auditioned, hundreds of people were lined up to sing. I waited and waited, and finally my number was called. I got up onstage and, even though I knew the character description was “innocent follower of Christ,” I did my signature audition song, “Somebody” from the rock mus
ical Celebration, which would have been perfect for the live nude version of Girls Gone Wild but decidedly not for a Jesus disciple. I got halfway through, to just after the gyrating-hips section, and was then cut off abruptly. Some disembodied voice from the audience yelled, “Thank you, next”—three words no actor ever wants to hear, unless the words are immediately followed by “You got the part.” I slunk back to my seat and continued to watch the auditions.
At that moment, I saw an adorable girl walk up on stage, with her hair in pigtails and her baggy trousers held up with brightly coloured suspenders. She skipped around the stage joyously and sang a childlike version of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” She brought the house down. It was Gilda Radner. That was my cue to flee and walk directly to Dunkin’ Donuts, where I bought and consumed a dozen crullers on my way to a Vic Tanny gym, where I then sat in the sauna for two weeks trying to sweat them off.
One day I heard my name over the loudspeaker; I was being called to the phone. I wrapped myself in a towel, walked to the phone in the locker room, and heard the distinctive voice of my friend Eugene Levy, who had been cast in Godspell. We knew each other from our award-winning performances as the stars of Ivan Reitman’s Cannibal Girls. By “award-winning” I don’t mean the Oscars, nor the Canadian Geminis. I mean at the Sitges. Anybody? It’s the international fantasy and horror film festival. Yes, I indeed was in a horror film, made apparent by the poster that listed the title as Cannibal Girls, followed by the tagline “These girls eat men.” Ivan Reitman was kind enough to cast us in one of his first films. Not the many huge hits that followed after. Nope. No room for us in Meatballs or Ghostbusters. But plenty of room for us to improvise the entire film of Cannibal Girls—“these girls eat men.”
Lady Parts Page 17