By Myself and Then Some (77 page)

T
he Nineties were surprisingly good
and productive years for me. My professional life became satisfyingly varied after
A Foreign Field
in 1993. There were four and a half months on the rue du Cherche-Midi in Paris while making Robert Altman’s
Prêt à Porter
. Living in Paris was total bliss. Working there made me feel like a resident. The Cherche-Midi is a great street in the 7th arrondissement on the Left Bank, an area I have frequented for years. But to wake up every morning and stop at the Cafe Alexandre for a hot chocolate while waiting for the studio car to pick me up, is one of life’s grand pleasures. Paris affects me like no other city in the world. I gasp at the sight of it at night – all lit up – the Eiffel Tower – Place de la Concorde – Arc de Triomphe – Notre Dame – the Sacré Coeur – after rain with the pavement glistening – it is all too breathtaking to even try to describe. I’ve always had a gut reaction to it, from my first glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe in 1951, that feeling has remained with me, made my heart beat faster each time I enter the city. It is the city of light and unimaginable beauty. It’s a funny thing about Paris and indicative of the French way of life as compared to ours but no matter what the weather – rain, shine, killing heat and no air conditioning – no matter what the time – during lunch, pre-dinner, during and after dinner – every bar and bistro is packed with people of all ages talking, smoking, drinking, laughing – sharing their lives. What better way to live? Nothing fancy, everything human. So many years ago I remember my wonderment when Vivien Leigh, my good dear friend,
told me she couldn’t bear to have a year go by without having been to France. Now I know that feeling all too well.

A couple of years ago I almost went a full year with no Paris. That is major for me. I have decided that I need to be there. It feeds my spirit. Not only the brandy, but because I have many friends there and know the city so well, especially the Left Bank. I feel very comfortable there, that I belong there. Call it escape if you like but it truly isn’t. I am attached to Paris, the good, the bad, the beauty. And over the years – the days, weeks, months I’ve spent in all kinds of weather – the city has never let me down. I have never been disappointed – it has always lived up to my expectations, my remembrance of times past (to steal a phrase). The new illumination of monuments and buildings of the past few years – its artistry and the sense of pride that Parisians take in their city – has surpassed anything I might have imagined. And yet, with my familiarity with the streets and squares of Paris, I am still discovering corners, small cafes, gardens – it still surprises – it still makes my heart beat faster.

I
n the spring of 1995
, I had just arrived in Paris – was sitting snugly in my bed looking forward to two weeks in my favorite city when my agent called. A script was on its way –
From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler –
a movie for television – to start shooting in two days. I had to answer immediately, say ‘yes’ or they had to get somebody else. Typical. Nothing convenient about my profession. So I read the script and liked it. My son Sam mentioned that
From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
happened to be his favorite book in his younger years. I said “yes” and started repacking my unpacked clothes and headed for Los Angeles. They
had
to turn in the product by a certain date and all was in readiness – that’s the nature of the business. My late friend John Schlesinger described Hollywood as being ‘a temporary place, buildings disappear like fortunes and reputations, the instant dispensability of all of us working in movies. Underneath the facade of promises is all the frustration. At the studio, people dress to prepare for fantasy but they are treated like commodities.’ That was a profound and ultimately sad analysis of the movie business to a large degree. John was a brilliant director – deeply intelligent, sensitive and interesting – another witty and loyal friend.

The fun of the film for me was the unfolding discovery of the story. I
had never heard of it before yet it was familiar to most elementary school children. In the television production, the two young actors were particularly good. Child actors are often difficult to work with for many reasons – usually parents who hover over them during work hours – coach them – push them. There are few parents who handle their children’s careers as Shirley Temple’s mother did. Somehow, while being the biggest star in the Hollywood firmament from the age of four or five to her entering the awkward ages and pulling away a bit, Shirley managed to have a sane, private, totally un-Hollywood childhood. I have worked with child actors on several occasions. Studying the parents’ behavior on set taught me a thing or two in my scenes in this movie. Some of the kiddies are very spoiled – not their fault – but not the ‘Frankweiler’ children. Despite the fact that, practically on arrival in L.A., I was standing in the shower at four o’clock in the morning washing my hair – heading for my first day of shooting – it turned out to be fun. A happy experience with the Sam connection very much in the foreground of my sense it would be a plus for many a child. And something for the grandchildren to enjoy.

P
aris would come again at
a later date. After L.A., I headed to New York – home – an almost impossibility for me. I wanted the theatre, to be on stage, but in what? Where was the play? Imagine my delight when my old friend, Duncan Weldon, called to invite me to Chichester on the south coast of England for the 1995 summer festival. He suggested
The Visit
, a Frederic Durenmatt play that I had seen many moons ago with the great Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. They made even the most feeble play look like a masterpiece.
The Visit
is far from feeble, but it is a very difficult piece that many an actor does not like. Not because it’s challenging but because it is dark, diabolical, interesting though slightly depressing. However, I jumped in with both feet. It sadly turned out not to be my favorite experience onstage.

Bogie had introduced me to the Lunts on a trip to London in the early Fifties. I was in awe of them in every play I saw them in – they were true theatre magic. Because of my unreal memory of the Lunts’ brilliance, it was my fantasy to have Paul Scofield (the number one actor of his generation, and perhaps all those that followed) play the Alfred Lunt part. He graciously declined, saying he never liked the play. That slowed
me down a bit. One of my many faults – and a major one – is to read into a play qualities that perhaps are not there once I’ve said ‘yes’ to it. I tend to trust the wrong people at times and my instinct goes awry.

Being in completely new theatrical surroundings, though I’m quick at adjusting, I still had to learn how to work physically on a thrust stage. Most stages are elevated from the audience with a curtain separating them, thereby keeping the actors in a play in their own special world. A thrust stage has no such curtain, rather it juts out into the audience creating a sense of immediate contact with the actors and the play. In the case of Chichester, the space was large with many seats, which generally works well with that size audience. Having seen many Chichester productions, I think I only had the sense of it being real, wonderful theatre. I also think in some ways, as it was so new to me, I was in awe of the past – the British actors I admired more than many American actors. I had had the privilege of seeing the classics, like Shakespeare, all acted by Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud, Guinness, Scofield. And I could never live up to them or the women – Vivien Leigh, Maggie Smith, Joan Plowright, Edith Evans. Jumping over these hurdles – not necessarily clearing them – I struggled.

The cast was good, all experienced in the thrust venue, the director too. We did not communicate well, unhappily. I think he thought of me too much as a movie star, so did not direct me to a large degree. I, in turn, was a fish out of water. I became quite frustrated and did not know who to go to for help. The director is so much the key to an actor’s performance for guidance, the giving of confidence, the support. When that fails, I withdraw, playing it safe. That’s never a good thing to do, neither for a performance nor for emotions. Finally my performance was, I think, quite uneven. Good in some scenes, not so in others. Once committed to a project, though, you’re stuck, aren’t you? The result, unfortunately, was that the fun (and even in a grim play such as
The Visit
, there can be moments of fun) wasn’t really there. Thank heaven for Johan Engels, a brilliant top-rated costume and scenic designer of world operas and ballets as well as theatre. He became my friend and my tower of strength.

My spirits did not soar, which was my first and only experience with that. Usually there is some saving grace in the theatre – usually the theatre itself. Just being part of it is enough. With a shaky self-confidence, it was uphill for me for a good part of the run. It’s
experiences like this one that make me wish I am as tough as I’m sometimes thought to be. The company was fun. Though I never really got very close to them, there was a sense of general camaraderie. I almost always have had a positive feeling among the actors in all the plays I have been in. This was no exception. It was different, but it doesn’t take away from the work that we all did to play the play and give the audience its money’s worth. Looking back, the rough edges have worn down to some degree and though not a professional landmark for me, it was still the theatre, part of a well-known festival in England where I love to live and to work. The final judgment is I am glad I did it. I learned a thing or two and I was out there, not necessarily functioning at my best, but definitely functioning – I was out there. I was working.

The perks were that Harold Pinter was appearing in another theatre at the Festival at almost the same time so I could spend some time with him and his wife, Antonia Fraser, two people I became very attached to in 1985 during our
Sweet Bird of Youth
months together.
Sweet Bird of Youth
was a great high for me – first because I was able to speak the words of Tennessee Williams – a great poet and playwright – and because I was directed by Harold Pinter – another great playwright. Harold, being an actor – a good one – himself, was a marvelous director – great and articulate with actors. We hit it off immediately. The entire experience, from our six weeks out of town – in England, that meant Bath, Brighton, Plymouth – all new theatres to me, all enthusiastic audiences – to ending up in London at the Royal Haymarket Theatre inhabiting the dressing room of Gielgud, Olivier, Ralph Richardson, Alec Guinness – all theatre greats – very exciting for me. The play was well received, as was the company. We had a sold-out run of more than six months in England and then went on, this time with an Australian cast, to play four and a half months in that country. Though it was a difficult role, unlike any I’d had before, it was bliss from beginning to end. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between Harold and Antonia and myself and I am more than grateful for that. Happy times then and ever since.

O
n returning to New York
, my career took an unexpected turn. Barbra Streisand was going to direct and star in a movie called
The
Mirror Has Two Faces
. I was called to go to her apartment and read a scene with her, playing her mother. You see that for actors auditions never cease. You still never make it. No matter what you call it, I was still being tested, judged. And the time had come – face it – you are a character actress, which actually I always had been anyway, not a leading lady. Well, if I could have more parts as good as the one in
The Mirror Has Two Faces
, it was fine with me. I was very excited at the prospect of working with Barbra and being directed by her – my first time to be directed by a woman. I had known Barbra since her Funny Girl opening night when she took my breath away with her singing, acting, funny, touching magical self. So I went to her apartment on the appointed day at the appointed hour, as nervous as when at seventeen I had had my first audition.

It was to be my first visit to her private home and I had no idea what to expect. As Barbra is a perfectionist, I knew it would be filled with lovely things – fairly uncluttered and very neat. It was all of that, mostly English furniture, much white upholstery. One thing I did notice was her affection for dolls and doll china – mostly antique and expensive. She herself was dressed in white, all comfortable, at home kind of clothing – pants, scarves hanging loosely. She took me around the apartment, all attractively done, all Barbra’s taste and a bit more formal than I anticipated. After the tour, during which I watched myself carefully – when would we get to talk about the movie? – how many actresses was she considering? – finally she said, ‘Let’s go into the library and read a couple of scenes.’ She said she just wanted a sense of how our voices balanced with each other. I have never been at my best during a reading. She may not have thought of it as an audition – I, however, did. So, we read and I hadn’t a clue how it sounded. I only knew, coming back into the living room, I was not in a social mode. I was talking to a director and a producer. I was in a business mode.

I knew auditions were not me at my best. Some actors thrive on them. I do not. Barbra asked me to wait a few minutes while she met with her partner and producer, Cis Corman. I was a nervous wreck, of course. I was finally called back to the living room. I’ll never forget the setting. Barbra and Cis were seated on a small sofa, Barbra pointing out some of her beautiful and valuable antiques. She said, ‘You were very good. We’ll be in touch.’ It was time for me to leave. I said something on leaving, ‘Thank you. Good to see you again.’ As I headed for the door,
Barbra said, ‘So, you think you could play my mother?’ I replied, ‘Yes, I can play your mother.’ (Though come to think of it, I would have had to be a teenage mother to qualify.) And out the door I went, able to take my first big breath in the elevators taking me to the lobby and air. Did I think I was too young to be her mother? Or did she think I was too young to be her mother? Had I read the scene as an older woman? These questions are perfect ways to torture yourself. I found myself shaking and wondering yet again why, at this point in my life, with my years of acting successfully in movies and the theatre, why was I still so low on self-confidence? Childhood anxieties, childhood fears never disappear entirely. They fade, but not away.