While working I felt more than ever that the social and emotional environment of creative people on the film was analogous to the Utopian dream of society. No one holds back much, feelings are freely expressed, yet there is a respect for the order necessary to function. There is a leader on the set (the director), yet even he answers to a leader in the front office.
The marriage of creative individualism with industry (money) works fairly well for the most part. There are explosions of individual temperament and protest (born out of insecurity usually), but always there is the hidden acknowledgment that such artistic combustion is vital to the health of the whole.
Creative people in show business know they are dependent upon the people with the money. But the converse is true also. The often unexpressed admiration and awe with which the money people regard creative eccentrics is amusing. Yes, we are obstreperous children to them, yet the family of opposites can’t function without such a mix. The “bosses” are often reviled and ridiculed by us creative children, yet they serve as parental figures who hold the power and the permission without which we are not allowed to play and make magic.
Arguments, anger, fear, and sometimes even literally physical combat serve as outlets for resolution, sometimes making it unclear who is more childish, we children or the parent bosses.
When Columbia was bought by the Japanese “bosses,” Nichols’s creative reaction was to put his film in a can under his arm in protection until he could determine what kind of business parents they would be. At the same time, those who now controlled the family were completely dependent on the emotional and spiritual health and welfare of the genius children. Such motion picture relationships gave new meaning to symbiotic interplay.
One day, as Meryl and I were rehearsing for the musical number we were to shoot the following day, she involuntarily described the costume she would be wearing as her school uniform, adding that she had done her homework and hoped that her teachers and mother would approve of her work. Mike often talked of what he would be “allowed” to do regarding shooting and inventive expense. Carrie was constantly protective of the feelings and sensitivities of her mother and father, and I, in my adjustment to aging, tried to live up to my father’s adage that I was a long-distance runner, not a fast-starting sprinter.
We were each playing our roles in the game of illusion, needing each other and the “parents” who “allowed” us to play. There were compliments from the front office about our work in the dailies. There were baskets of gaily arranged fruit and worldly delicacies that spoke, in gracefully sophisticated acknowledgment, to our appreciation of being appreciated.
The crew was, of course, more “grown up.” They were pragmatists and played with technology. Sometimes, as we creative children sat singing songs with mischievously invented lyrics, they blinked in embarrassment at the free-flowing childishness of our spontaneity. They might even have been much younger than us in years, but their emotions were more controlled, regulated, and restrained. They were the “straight” people. The creative “above the line” talents were acknowledged to be the children who kept the familial project going, perhaps even activating the child in every person who would ultimately buy the tickets.
When Mike arrived for the night shoot, which included two musical numbers, and was disturbed by the color of paint of the walls, a slight undercurrent of “so what” rippled through the crew, but at the same time everyone knew that he “sees” things others don’t. Somehow there was the understanding that color matters to performance, it matters to ambiance, it matters to deep visceral reactions in the minds and eyes of an audience.
We sat for three or four hours while the walls were repainted and dried. And because the new color produced a subliminal shift in feeling—surrounding the actors with enhanced focus—the musical scenes went better and were accomplished in two takes.
What was it that Mike’s eyes saw? How did he know? And more than anything, how did he muster the courage to command the change at such extravagant cost in time? Only a creative child whose sole survival was realizing his own visions would do such a thing. Mike’s dreams were infectious so that we all saw through his eyes.
Would a studio head in his right mind come charging onto the set to tell us we had to go with “that” color because it was already paid for and we shouldn’t keep three hundred extras standing around waiting? It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, but I’ve found that the more eccentric the creative child, the more the “straight” people leave them alone. They are unable to identify with the freedom of eccentricity, and thus find it difficult to handle. They are literally intimidated by the insanity of eccentric vision.
Observing the intricacies of creativity over the years—both in myself and others—led me to examine, probably with too much scrutiny, the nature of the transformative process. What was it that enabled a person to realize and manifest his or her vision?
A simple light stroke applied to the canvas of creative imagination could change the entire perception until, to the objective observer, it became a new reality. How does the artist know? From what does he receive his knowledge? Overnight a transformation can occur, which gives the impression, because of its perfection, that it was there all along.
And wasn’t that true in our lives? With a rearrangement of focus the entire drama of an event alters. Perhaps the reason show business and movies and theater are so fascinating to every culture known to man is because the creative expression is analogous to our lives in that we do indeed create the drama, the comedy, the laughter, the tears, by casting the characters therein according to what we need and want to experience. We can tolerate the responsibility when it comes to a fantasy production—but how about the “reality” of life itself?
Were we responsible for creating whatever we were going through? Were we drawing personalities to us that make us miserable, joyful, and confused? Were we the producers, actors, directors, and casters of our own lives? Were we then the enactors of our own transformation or the lack of it? The whole world seemed to be going through a transformation, because the individuals in it were taking responsibility for who they were and wanted to be.
An actor, writer, director, or artist understands the phenomenon of transforming the choices one makes into the reality of enactment. The choices are infinite and the decisions sometimes painful. Indecision can abort the flow of harmony. Fear can cause chaos. Insecurity can breed a breakdown of communication, and insensitivity can make war. But the combustion of all the suffering that goes into the variegated spectrum of creativity is what makes show business endlessly alluring. Was that not analogous to life itself? The world was a stage and all the people actors upon it learning who they were while playing their parts. The reviews or even the finished product were not as important as the process. The pleasure lay in the enlightenment along the path; the pain lay in the resistance to learning.
But regardless of how much moviemaking affords those of us in it the opportunity to know ourselves better, there always comes a moment when we suddenly are faced with what we are doing in our lives as actresses and actors and where we’d be without our work.
One morning I woke up early and flipped on a movie channel. The credits were winding down for Billy Rose’s Jumbo—a big, old, MGM Hollywood musical about the circus, directed by Chuck Walters and produced by Joe Pasternak.
I had worked with both of them at Metro so long ago that it seemed another lifetime. As I watched the opening scenes unfold with the hundreds of extras and animals and high-moving crane shots, I was overcome with a nostalgia that segued into a depression so deep I had to turn off the television set.
What had happened to Hollywood? Where had my past gone? Why was everything so different now?
There was Doris Day gaily singing the thrills of bringing the family to the Big Top, riding high on a magnificent carriage drawn by prancing white circus ponies, her blond hair piled on top of her head, her smile flashing teeth brighter and more gleaming than polished iv
ory nuggets imbedded in an Indian statue.
And where was she now? Heading up an animal shelter somewhere near Santa Barbara? There wasn’t even water in Santa Barbara now. There was fire and fear.
I remembered walking into Alfred Hitchcock’s office in the old days just as a dramatic thriller starring Doris and Jimmy Stewart was being storyboarded. The assistant director was swaying and humming along with one of her hit records as it revolved on the turntable. He was caught up in an almost arrogant pleasure that he would be scheduling the time and talent of this marvelous performer. She didn’t know him from Adam, unaware of her influence on his life and sensibilities. He would dine out for months on stories about “him and Doris” struggling to complete this “goddamned flick on time.”
The screen credits had flashed the name of her husband, Martin Melcher, as an associate producer on the picture. That was a laugh. She had relied on him to be her manager, learning only after his death that millions of dollars had been lost.
My heart turned over as the moment brought back the rushing memories of what it had been like to be part of a business that was flourishing, and which, like the magic it created, would flourish forever. Or so most of the people living the dream seemed to believe, prancing and posturing with their power and talent like overindulged children gone amok in a candy store. And if the wizards who created and maintained the candy store did so because of what was in the cash register, they were no less caught up in the fantasy.
In the old days, the moguls of movies were so much more honest and humorous about what rogues they were. They were dedicated with a deep and childlike addiction to the game of making magic. They lived, breathed, manipulated, and made love to their own glittering, greedy creation.
The “deal” was important to be sure, but overriding it was how much was up there on the screen for the “people” to enjoy. Everything they did was in the name of their love for the mystery of the magic. Today it was for the love of profit and the sale of software to service hardware technology. Heart was out. Technology was in.
Perhaps that was what caused my depression. The spirit of our business was different now. Perhaps it was even gone. Certainly those people, like Pasternak and De Mille and Jack Cummings and Roger Edens, belong now to a past that almost provoked ridicule and cynical derision. Why was that? They had been such embraceable moviemakers. They had been patriarchs of power and passion whose attitude expressed pure delight in the knowledge that talent could potentially be immortalized on the screen, bringing joy and happiness to the small towns of America.
Of course they drooled over the profit they would make on someone else’s talent; but they invested in the talent. They were part of the nurturing process, the developing and molding of what would eventually be a sculpted legend, like Lana Turner or Rita Hayworth and, yes, Debbie Reynolds.
They provided coaches, trainers, teachers, designers, writers, and even PR people who carefully, and most of the time sensitively, fashioned the desired image of projected imagination until a screen identity had been achieved. Each individual in the army of backstage people had a stake in the success of a star and a film. They were not detached. They were totally involved with the destiny of each project, sometimes foregoing time off and, more often than not, sacrificing time with their families.
In no other business had I seen dedication to getting the job done with such naive selflessness.
There was time in those days for show business stories in between setups, time for movie queen primping, time for temperament, time for on- and off-screen love affairs between the gods and goddesses of the celluloid. The front office knew everything and also when to let well enough alone.
Nowadays there was little talent for involvement. Everything nowadays was about money and about time being analogous to money. The basic character underneath the business had changed. I missed what we used to be. I was lonely for the familylike camaraderie that used to surround us as we bared our hearts and souls on the screen.
The movie business seemed to give people up, rather than the other way around. Why, then, hadn’t it given me up?
Why were my brother, Warren Beatty, and I still around, battered and bruised but none the worse for wear? In fact, it seemed to me that the wisdom gained had enhanced our work. But why was our drive so deep and intense? It appeared nothing would dam up our chosen outlet of expression. We would somehow use our tragedies and loneliness as grist for the mill. No personal relationship or event in our lives, regardless of the impact, seemed to alter our need to continue to create, to be on top, or at least somehow to still insist on being in the melee.
I loved being alone and spending long self-reflective periods of time writing. But I always knew I was going back to bat again—to work as an emulator of human emotion decked out in an appropriate costume with hair and face to match. I knew I would always have the opportunity to become someone else on demand for the rest of my life. I never doubted it. The question was, Why did I need it?
I believe the need to be on top of the profession was a way of continuing to act out my parents’ unfulfilled dreams, particularly my mother’s. She had always wanted what I now had. She had told me so, and her old age presence was a constant reminder to Warren and me that her dreams continued to come to fruition through us. She wanted to stay around to witness our testament to her ambitions. Our accomplishments were motivated by her burning desire to see us succeed. She hadn’t done it for herself. She had dedicated her life to us. I don’t know if she actually sacrificed a budding creative career for us, but the implication was clearly there for me. For Warren? I don’t know. I only know that her desire for us to “accomplish” permeated our very beings. It was in every film we made.
The depression that overwhelmed me when I “accidentally” turned on Jumbo probably spoke to the truth that I couldn’t continue being in the business to fulfill my mother’s dreams. I would go on now to fulfill my own dreams. It seemed preposterous that I had become Shirley MacLaine because my mother wanted it, but I think there is more truth to that than I had been heretofore willing to admit. I was doing it for her, and at the same time I felt slightly guilty that I had done what she couldn’t. I felt a sense of competition from her, a velvet resentment almost.
Weren’t most mothers a twinge jealous of their daughters? Would I twinge with a loving jealousy if Sachi became a star? It seemed that I felt the opposite. In fact, it would be a continuum if Sachi followed in my footsteps, and yet … and yet. That primitive fear that one’s territory might be usurped was always possible. And so I plowed ahead year after year, decade after decade, to serve my mother’s dream, which had now become mine, to thank her, live up to her expectations, and sustain my “stardom” regardless of what it took or the price I paid. I loved it, to be sure, but it was clear to any other thinking, curious individual that our professional longevity—Warren’s and mine—was beginning to raise the proverbial eyebrow around town. What was the reason for our long-distance marathon? Others came and went. We were determined to stay in the race till the people went home. Our mother had subliminally, in her powerfully passive way, decreed it. We would become stars, and we would shed our light as long as she lived and breathed. And after that, what?
What would we do then? If there were no audience, what would we do? Would we have to turn around and literally consider having a long-term committed relationship? Never mind that this was the professed objective for most of the rest of the world. Show business relationships were notoriously difficult to sustain. Actors, actresses, entertainers of one kind or another—all felt the pressure of the now-and-then relationships, all, or at least most, were too mercurial, moody, inconsistent, self-centered, and vain to sustain long-term personal connections. We were perhaps more in need of approval from relatively impersonal masses of people. And it seemed that we’d go to any lengths to sustain that approval. If a particular relationship compromised that priority, it was doomed.
We sometimes didn’t even realize the profound need w
e had to put ourselves first, above the relationship, in order to insure our position at center stage. It was a matter of survival for us. We felt we didn’t exist if the focus of attention was elsewhere, while innate shyness expressed itself in anxiety about not living up to being in the spotlight.
Most of us were loving, social, outgoing, in a word, extroverted. After all, expression, rather than introversion, was the core of our work. Yet we were also territorial beings. We continually sought to find love and companionship, then as soon as we found it, our survival and territorial instincts would take over and we’d begin to argue and engage in the power struggle that we thought jeopardized our position.
If we didn’t engage in the power struggle by trying to dominate, we evaluated the circumstance and elected to repress our real selves and “succumb.”
I was quite capable of either game, and I had played both roles. I had been the woman I thought the man wanted me to be, down to the way I dried myself after a shower, or contained myself in a moment of hurt. I protected my territory by never really exposing it, by refraining from jeopardizing it. Or I’d subtly make my wishes and desires known until, depending on the wiles it took, I’d ultimately have my way.
Rarely, in a close emotional relationship, was I my real self, completely and totally accepting who I was and the person I was with. Such protective posturing was tailor-made to annihilate the prospect of lasting love.
We’d begin with harmonious feelings and the spirit of loving diplomatic compromise. God knows we in show business knew how to use charm and emotional orchestration to get what we wanted. Then, having achieved the desired relationship, we reached some kind of plateau that allowed evaluation of the weaknesses of the other. Paying a high price to survive in our business, we needed to shore up the knowledge of where the weaknesses and strengths lay in anyone else we were associated with. The nature of the struggle for top spot, for good parts, for strong alliances and powerful supporters dictated a mistrust in the positive aspects of close relationships. Manipulation became the name of the game.
Dance While You Can Page 11