Chapter 43 – Spielberg and Deneuve
“I’ve never acted before,” Anna said.
Spielberg took off his signature baseball cap which he insisted on wearing indoors almost all the time, like a class A dork, and set it on the ca. 1712 Blausette mahogany table that was in the center of the dining room that was in the center of the chateaux that was in the center of the Moet Champagne vineyard estate. The logo on the hat said, Bergman Lives. Gwen wondered if this referred to the actress or the director. Could be either, right? Then Gwen remembered that Ingmar Bergman once said Jaws was his favorite movie, which answered the question.
Spielberg said, “You don’t have to worry about that. Just do what Catherine Hepburn told Jimmy Stewart to do when they did their first movie. She said, ‘Don’t act. Just say your lines. Leave the acting to me.’ You have Catherine here with you. Just say your lines.”
John Williams got up from the table, went over to the Steinway in the corner, and began playing some jazz riffs, 1920s stuff, up-tempo and danceable. “You like jazz, Anna?”
“I like it when the melody is discernible, very much. I don’t like it when the improve gets too far out there. Those guys are just playing with themselves; trying to make themselves special. Like yogis try to do. If you can’t do, teach. If you can’t teach, become a yogi or far out jazz improve guy. Sponge offa people.”
Anna said this stone sober, not a drop of bubbly flowing through her hot, sexy, smart as hell veins. It made Williams stop playing and look at her; her with her beautifully serious face. Catherine didn’t follow it, but Spielberg and Gwen did. Williams laughed. Spielberg looked at Gwen, who smiled and shrugged. “She’s the bomb, Steven, the bomb.”
He put his hat on, again being the dork, sat back in his chair and looked at Catherine, who also smiled and said to him, “Sure you don’t want her to act?”
He said to Anna, “No, I don’t want you to act. You’re here because Catherine says you have intuition. Special intuition. People who have that are instinctual, and make good actors. So don’t try to think around here. Say your lines, follow Catherine’s lead, do a little improv if the spirit moves you,” smiling now, “but not too much.”
Williams shifted into a Liszt-like arpeggio, trying out motifs that might fit with the documentary footage Spielberg would shoot. He was here at the start of the production, to be one of the team, get the feel of the subject matter, soak up the atmosphere and ambience of Champagne culture. The piano filled not only the dining room with sound, but the entire house. Anna was calm on the outside, excited on the inside. She also was recovering from a week of debauchery. All three women needed to dry out. The timing was right, though, with two weeks of long work days ahead. That was the production schedule. Not a lot of room for long work hours and drinking to fit together, unless you’re John Wayne, maybe Dean Martin and his crowd.
After the public party in the hotel lobby that followed the visit to the Louvre, they’d had four more days of tours, events, appearances, and soirees. Four more days of drinking, smiling, laughing, learning, art. Hundreds of new friends; formerly strangers. They ate langoustines six times. Yeah, that means twice in one day, lunch and dinner. If you want to eat something great with Champagne, try langoustines in butter garlic sauce. Frenchies know wine and food combinations.
The women listened to music inspired by Champagne; they drank Champagne while listening to music; while listening to recitations of poetry; while sitting in sculpture gardens. At the end of the week, sitting in their suite, Gwen said, “Culture with Champagne is better than culture without Champagne.”
Catherine said, “Life with Champagne is better than life without it.”
Anna said, “I can do without the headache every morning, though.”
Catherine said, “Enjoy it now, dear. The headaches get worse once you pass fifty. Hangovers are the only thing I really begrudge about getting old.” She looked up at the ceiling, said, “No, not true is it? One thing’s worse about getting old, a lot worse. Merde.”
Gwenny June Page 42