What falls away : a memoir

by Farrow, Mia, 1945-

  ing on Park Avenue, he had the idea that I should absent-mindedly walk across the street into moving traffic, not looking right or left. "Nobody will hit a pregnant woman," he laughed, referring to my padded stomach. He had to operate the hand-held camera himself, smce nobody else would. I took a deep breath—an almost giddy, euphoric feeling came over me. Together Roman and I marched right in front of the oncoming cars—with Roman on the far side, so I would have been hit first. "There are 127 vaneties of nuts," he told a journalist. "Mia's 116 of them." I'll take a compliment any way it comes.

  Except for the phone booth scene, all the interiors were shot back at Paramount in L.A. Athough I only weighed about ninety-eight pounds when we started, Roman told me to lose weight for the scenes when I'm sickly pregnant, and we'd shoot that part last.

  Roman preferred to film long scenes in one shot, moving actors and the camera with precision. Because of the inherent technical demands, and Roman's perfectionism, he frequently shot as many as thirty or forty takes. This method of working drove John Cassavetes nuts. John was a wonderful actor, as well as a respected and innovative director and writer of his own highly personal films. But his approach could not have been more different: his films had a raw, improvised quality, while Roman, who had adapted the script from the book himself, expected the actors to utter every word precisely as written and, of course, to hold up through as many takes as he wanted to shoot. John felt that this killed all the life in a scene. I was too inexperienced to have an opinion, but my commitment was to Roman, and I felt embarrassed and upset when the two men openly disagreed and grew apart.

  One workday, while we were waiting to shoot, Roman was discoursing about the impossibility of long-term monogamy given the brevity of a man's sexual attraction for any one woman. An impassioned John Cassavetes responded

  that Roman knew nothing about women, or relationships, and that he, John, was more attracted than ever to his wife, Gena Rowlands. Roman stared at him and blinked a few times, and for once had no reply.

  During the shooting, one evening Frank and I took Nancy and her beau out to dinner. As we sat at Trader Vic's in the light of two stubby candles, I sipped a sweet drink and poked at the gardenia floating on top. The talk flowed easily and all was well—until the evening swerved. This had happened countless times before: after dinner and enough Jack Daniel's, Frank was likely to suddenly decide not to go home, but to Las Vegas instead, or Miami, or New York. He would feel the pull of that other world—the third part of his life—and it would be pointless to object. By now I was used to these abrupt departures alongside my husband, who was soon to metamorphose into a virtual stranger and would forget many things, includmg me. My stomach knew to turn over.

  That night I couldn't go with him: I had to be at the studio early the next morning. So after alerting Don, his pilot, Frank drove me home, sweetly kissed me good night, and continued on to the airport. Later he woke me by phone to say that he had safely arrived in Las Vegas. I heard no more, nor did I expect to, until the morning, when he reached me on the set at Paramount.

  His speech was unclear but I soon made out that there had been a fight, the caps had been punched clear off his teeth, some other guy had been hurt, headlines were sure to follow, and his dentist was on the way with new teeth. It didn't much matter what started the fight: they always had to do with his powerful Sicilian sense of propriet)^ which by four in the morning could get a little cloudy. He sounded bewildered and upset as he said he loved and needed me, and with my whole being I loved and needed him too. And when he told me not to leave him ever, I promised him that. Life was not easy for Frank Sinatra, or

  for anyone who stood beside him. Although the armies of his heart and mmd did frequent battle and left him isolated and restless, in matters of conscience and of human hope, they were one.

  At Paramount Studios we were falling behind schedule. I appeared in every single scene of the film, except when, during a rape sequence, a body double was used in my place. But I didn't entirely miss out on the scene: one day I found myself—me from convent school, who prayed with outstretched arms in the predawn light—tied to the four corners of a bed, ringed by elderly, chanting witches. The Pope brought over his big ring for me to kiss, while a perfect stranger with bad skin and vertical pupils was grind-mg away on top of me. I didn't dare think. After finishing that scene the actor climbed off me and said politely, in all seriousness, "Miss Farrow, I just want to say, it's a real pleasure to have worked with you."

  The sixties were in full bloom. Roman was humming, "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair," and I painted the walls of my dressing room with rainbows, flowers, and butterflies. When I was done painting, they brought in a Ping-Pong table and I pestered everybody to come play with me. Except for the days Ruth worked, I was the only female on the set and the guys treated me like a kid sister. Ruth Gordon had been my friend long before we made the movie, and nobody was better company. Her energy and enthusiasm were unmatched. She was sharp and quick and unfailingly saw right to the heart of everything.

  Filming seemed to be going well, but very slowly. Across town The Detective was shooting on schedule, and my start date was drawing close: I was expected to report for work there in mid-October. Frank was baffled and outraged by the pace of our filming. When he went to New York for a

  few weeks of filming on The Detective^ I joined him on weekends, trying to hold things together. As the date neared, it became clear that Frank expected me to meet my commitment even if it meant abandoning Rosemary's Bahy before it was completed. I began to understand that my whole marriage was at risk. The ultimatum was clear. But if I left Rosemary's Baby, certainly my career would be finished. I thought of the months of long days and countless takes and everyone trying so hard. I thought of the people whose trust rd earned, and I thought of my own work, which for the first time in my life might have some value. To lose Frank was unthinkable, but I didn't believe he would leave me. I also realized that in this decision I would define myself. If I walked out on this project, in time even he would see that I had done a less than honorable thing, and he would respect me less.

  I pictured myself in Las Vegas sitting with the hookers as I had so many times before. It is 4 A.M. Frank and the other men are telling jokes and laughing loudly. A jaded piano plays the cocktail songs. The women are apart, we are wearing our best dresses, our faces are fixed right. We chat about cats, and we wait.

  In dread I continued to report for work each day and prayed that he would change his mind. Jacqueline Bisset was cast in an abbreviated version of my role in The Detective. There were rumors of an affair between Frank and Lee Remick. Then, without warning, on an afternoon in November, Frank's lawyer, Mickey Rudin, appeared on our set carrying a brown envelope. He puUed out documents that I looked at just long enough to see they were made out in my name: they were an official application for a divorce from Frank Sinatra. I remember the unprofessional look of surprise as Mr. Rudin realized I had not expected his visit, nor did I know anything about the papers he carried. This was the first mention of divorce. I held myself together and signed all the papers without reading them. If Frank wanted

  a divorce, then the marriage was over. I told Mickey Rudin that I would do whatever they wanted. I would have no need for any legal counsel myself. After he left, Ruth and Roman tried to patch me up and get me back on the set, but I needed some time, and closed the door.

  All the detail, illusion, and embellishments of my mortal self — all that was nonessential — was sin^d to gray ash and blew away where I stood, a bare, scorched human stalk, bent into the wind. The familiar bulwarks held fast; pain, doubt, hope, and something else too; a large internal eye, blankly hanging in the space of me, restUssly scanning the depths of my being, beholding nothing.

  I applied myself to the remainder of the movie with a fervor usually reserved for prayer. The days were long and difficult. I was still living in the Tudor-style house, and speakmg with Frank in
New York whenever he called. Neither of us mentioned Mickey Rudm's mission. On weekends, the rented house in Malibu that Roman shared with Sharon Tate was filled with friends and laughter. Like the princess in a fairy tale, Sharon was as sweet and good as she was beautiful. Generously they mvited me mto their lives, and smce I now had none of my own, I gratefully spent my weekends with them.

  Relations between John and Roman, however, had broken down. While mapping out the final sequence of the movie, John became openly critical of Roman, who yelled, John, shut up! and they moved toward each other. Every time in my life when the commonplace has veered into the netherworld, it is as if I am watching television and I can't change the channel. It was Ruth Gordon, with consummate professionalism, who said, "Now, come on, let's get back to work," and saved the day.

  Back in New York, Ruth and I filmed our last scene on Fifth Avenue in front of Tiffany's. I stood for a moment on the sidewalk, watching everyone pack up and scurry back to their lives. It was Christmas. I returned to Frank's orange apartment on the East Side and packed up all my things.

  Then I sat down by my suitcases, trying to decide where to go. At that moment Pamela Hayward breezed in. She had been worried about me. She was heading to Palm Springs that day to spend Christmas with Frank. I heard her on the phone telling Frank how pale and thin I was, and the next thing I knew, we were landing in the Palm Sprmgs desert.

  Frank was waiting on the tarmac, we hadn't seen each other for over a month, and despite the tender greeting, his overall mood was withdrawn and stern. Still, I was grateful to be there, and anxious not to do anything wrong. We didn't talk about any of it—not Rosemary's Baby, or The Detective, or Ms. Remick, or the papers I had signed, and, above all, not the future. And each night, in our old bed, sleep found us entwined in hopeless silence.

  From the beginnmg, a short life had been predicted for our marriage, and now, with two Hollywood studios involved in the endgame, the tabloid headlines rang with reports of every kind. Nonetheless, life went on as usual at the Palm Springs compound. Just as before, Frank asked me to arrange the seating for each night's dinner, with the instructions that under no circumstances was I to seat a certain woman next to him, because she was so boring. Each evening I dutifully reshuffled the twenty-two guests around three tables, careful to place the offensive guest anywhere but next to her host. Frank tolerated this woman because her husband was so amusing, and they were established members of the A-group. On the fourth night I was in the living room alone after dinner when the woman's husband came toward me. I smiled, but his words were already flying at me, shrill and furious. "We've been here four days," he began, "and not once have you seated my wife next to Frank. She is upset and embarrassed and insulted. I think you are a stupid, rude little girl—you will never be a host-ess!

  I was so unprepared and thoroughly terrified that I didn't say a word, not to him or to Frank. I knew that the

  man would never in a million years have dared to attack me had he not assumed I was on my way out of Frank's life.

  This couple, friends of Ronald Reagan, were eventually instrumental in securing Frank's support for Reagan and the Republican Party. Back in 1966, the war in Vietnam had polarized our positions and joined the list of things it was not safe to discuss. And to my dismay, over the next years, Frank, an old liberal in the best sense, moved steadily toward the right.

  My gift to him that Christmas was a real London taxi purchased while I was making A Dandy in Aspic. It had taken months to have it converted to U.S. specifications, and in that time a lot had happened. Nonetheless, Yul had planned a grand presentation ceremony and even rented snappy livery uniforms for himself and for George, the houseman: at five that afternoon, when everyone was sitting around the bar and living room, Yul was going to toot the horn and I would get Frank and everybody outside, where Yul and George, with as much fanfare as possible, would present the taxi.

  I was beyond excitement by the time five o'clock rolled around and the horn sounded, and the guests who were in on the secret and the spirit of the occasion trooped out the front door, followed by Frank, who was grumpy—he didn't like being told what to do—and me, tugging his arm. But the second we stepped out the door, Frank said it was cold: I'd have to go back inside and put on a sweater. A svocater? Now? That's okay, I'm not cold, just please come on. But he was getting mad, and he wouldn't budge, and neither could I, until I put on a sweater. By now all the guests had gone quiet and they were turned around facing us. I could feel my face all hot and my smile was stuck to my teeth. So I ran back, dug a sweater out of my bottom drawer, and dashed back with it around my shoulders and everybody was still there trying to keep the ball in the air. Frank said. No, put the sweater on, so I quickly put my arms into the

  sleeves, and he waited, and everybody waited, until I buttoned every single button. Then we went down the path and the guests moved aside. Yul was smiling m uniform, bowing, presenting papers rolled up like a scroll, and George was beaming and saluting like crazy and everybody was clapping, they were so relieved, and Frank and I just stood there, locked into that moment, with the bones of our relationship completely exposed, as we stared at the shiny London taxi cab.

  That New Year's Eve, the whole gang, dressed to the nines and already tanked up, climbed aboard private planes headed for a party in L.A. I was worried because, as I said, we had never discussed what was going to happen after the holidays. Alan Lerner and Joshua Logan came up to me at the party: they'd seen parts of Rosemary's Baby and they paid me lavish compliments, even asking me to be in their movie Paint Your Wagon. This was remarkable, just the way they were looking at me and talking to me. Frank said nothing, and soon my circuits jammed, and I was quiet too. Before midnight Frank said he was leaving, and I asked, Can I come too? and ran along after him. He drove me to the house in Bel Air and there he said good night and that he was leaving for Acapulco.

  I laughed into the pale face in the mirror—he was right, my arms were thin, even I could see that now. The telephone was ringing. I delicately unwrapped a Wilkinson razor that was lying by the sink, then I couldn't think why I did that and neatly I refolded the paper around it. I couldn't concentrate for long. The house was just space and a lot of unrelated, meaningless objects. In my mind nothing was recognizable. I didn't know how to proceed. There was nothing to move toward, nothing to return to. Here was a mess of my own making.

  Without warning, one evening Frank arrived at the front

  door wearing a dark suit and shiny shoes and he smelled of the aftershave lotion that reminded me of my father. (I can say it now, they had the same identical smell.) I wished I had known he was commg so I could have put on nice clothes or something, my eyes were all puffy. But he was smilmg and had brought me a present, a really wonderful one, not jewelery or anything, it was the nicest thing I ever had—a beautiful antique music box. He showed me how to crank it, and we listened to the seven songs. Afterward I offered him Sara Lee chocolate cake, although I knew he wouldn't eat it. I didn't know what else to do. I wished he didn't have to leave.

  Word was spreading beyond the gates of Paramount that Rosemary's Baby was going to be a hit, and a dream movie career was being handed to me, with respected directors, interesting scripts and roles, exotic locations, pots of money, and costars of legendary proportions. Even John Wayne, on whose tall chair I had been stranded as a little girl, now wanted me to do True Grit. But at twenty-one I had lost my husband, my anonymity, and my equilibrium, and it was peace I yearned for.

  Every hour seemed like dusk inside the Bel Air house of our highest hopes. Exhausted, I lay on the practically new king-size bed. There was a fireplace in our bedroom but we had never got around to lighting it. The logs were fake— who even knew how to turn it on? I tugged the Porthault sheets tight around my chin. Tiny yellow flowers were embroidered all along the border. The house was cold. The housekeeper or the Japanese cook who looked at me strangely would know how to turn on the heat but I couldn't bring myself to ask. I hated that t
hey were there. I was never remotely comfortable with them, not in my highflying times, and certainly not now. At night I crept down to the refrigerator for Sara Lee chocolate cake, passing

  Frank's favorite room, the one with the big television and a bar, and five tall stools with orange leather seats, and a custom-made backgammon table and three squishy couches, also orange, like the carpets.

  " 'Evening, Mrs. S.," said the guard, no matter what. He had a gun.

  When certain guests came over—those who were older than Frank, or with whom he didn't feel comfortable—he put on a tie and we would sit with our drinks and cigarettes in the formal living room, which was actually not orange but white and yellow and had a lot of antiques in it. Every single thing in every single room had been chosen by the decorator, except for the encyclopedias, which were my anniversary present. It felt like somebody else's house. I was careful never to break anything.

  I had come to Frank Sinatra as an impossibly immature teenager without any person or system I could rely upon. With the best of intentions, Frank brought me into his own complex world and I, with the best of mine, gratefully clung to him there. I loved him truly. But this is also true: it was a little bit like an adoption that I had somehow messed up and it was awful when I was returned to the void.

  My life had fallen away, and I could not envision a future. Work and religion suggested themselves, but extended thought about either left me in a tangle of confusion and suspicion. It seemed to me that my brief acting career had summoned all the selfishness, arrogance, and shortsightedness inherent in me, and these unworthy elements had conspired to destroy what I needed and wanted most. I was not a pediatrician in Southeast Asia, or a Carmelite nun in England: I was a lightweight—a Hollywood starlet on the verge of divorce.