Though Sybil had aired to great acclaim, Smokey had not been released yet and the industry didn’t know what to make of me. To everyone’s amazement I had somehow become a strong actor, but if Sybil was any example, then I was definitely not pretty enough to be leading lady material. Not only that, but to play across from most of the leading men at that time, I appeared too young, and certainly not sexy enough—whatever sexy is. How long could I wait for the right project? I couldn’t let myself sink back into a sitcom, but I had to earn a living. I had to find a way to tread water, to keep afloat until I could catch another project, a place where I could do the work I now knew how to do.
My next film was not that. The script wasn’t very good and while I worried that I wasn’t moving forward, I didn’t think I’d be going backward either. Plus, sometimes you have to do the best you can with what you’ve got, and that was Heroes. So when Burt was on location in Texas filming Semi-Tough, I agreed to do a film co-starring Henry Winkler, fresh from his Fonzie success.
Because of my work in Stay Hungry and then Sybil, coupled with the fact that I was now starring opposite the very popular Mr. Winkler and dating America’s current heartthrob, I was informed that a new magazine wanted to do a cover story on me. It seemed like something I should do, like an important part of my transformation. But how would I tell Burt and how would he react to the fact that I’d agreed to do an interview with People magazine? I worried and stewed, let days go by, phone call after phone call, not wanting to face his wrath, and when I look at the childish angst written in my journal, I wonder what on earth the fuss was all about. On my part. On his. I know that he always worried about the press, felt that they were out to get him, to uncover something that would be hurtful or destructive. And there had been times, on other films, when potentially disastrous stories had been printed, so maybe he was feeling the scars from that. Maybe he was afraid that I’d inadvertently say something that the journalist could twist, or perhaps he didn’t want to be linked with me any more than he already was. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want the focus, any focus, on me.
I wouldn’t rely on my memory to accurately recall his reaction, but in this case, I wrote it down. “Why?” he asked. “What about me? Aren’t you concerned about me? How could you do that? You just want your face on the cover of some damn magazine. Why didn’t you ask before you agreed to do it? I’m disappointed in you.” Burt didn’t call me a smart-ass like Jocko did, but even without that, I felt fifteen again. It was our first real fight, and the tiniest thimbleful of my anger seeped out, telling him that I thought it was my job to help promote the film, that I’d been on lots of covers and didn’t give a “darn” (I wasn’t allowed to swear) about being on another one… which wasn’t completely honest. The following day, I profusely apologized, and he accepted.
I did the People cover story dated April 25, 1977, and only now have I read the three snide pages, beginning with the title “The Flying Nun Grows Up: Sally Field Makes a Movie with The Fonz and Has a Fling with Burt. When Sally Field Wanted to Kick the Habit, Burt and Henry Were Waiting.” Maybe I should have listened to Burt.
Out of nowhere, and not long after both of our films had wrapped, Burt became possessed with the idea of directing William Inge’s Bus Stop, with the role that Marilyn Monroe had famously played in the movie to be performed by me. I was flattered at first, but when I realized that the play was to take place in a run-down, tin-roofed theater in Jupiter, Florida, on precisely the same date that Smokey and the Bandit was going to open, I thought perhaps it wasn’t the best time for either of us to be doing regional theater. He was outraged. How could I do this to him? I had agreed to do it. I couldn’t pull out now. Plus, he had asked my mother to play Grace, the waitress in the bus stop café, a lovely role. It was either incredibly generous or a way to ensure that I truly couldn’t walk away from the production. And even though, in the back of my mind, I suspected that Burt had some ulterior motive behind this remote production, I didn’t walk away but flung myself at it, conjuring up some version of Cherie, the sexy small-time chanteuse, while all the time squelching the piece of me that kept saying I needed to be somewhere else, availing myself of the energy that was finally coming my way.
Before the play even opened, Burt—who was the director—departed to promote our film, while I stayed behind, performing in a theater containing about seventy-five seats. It was located so close to the railroad tracks we had to incorporate the passing train into each performance—which meant the entire cast turned toward the upstage window as if watching the thunderous thing roll past. But when a Florida rainstorm would unleash itself onto the old tin roof, vibrating the tiny box of a theater with pounding noise, we had to move onto the apron of the stage and scream dialogue directly at the audience. The hardest thing was to keep from laughing, and in that we weren’t always successful.
Baa and I in Jupiter, Florida, where we were performing in Bus Stop.
In retrospect, I realize what a wonderful time that actually was. Since the show ran early in the summer, Peter and Eli were out of school and could come with us. As soon as Burt was gone, the kids chose their spots. Peter wanted to stay in the small wharf-like actors’ commune with Baa and Princess, who had joined us, but every night Eli was mine. After the curtain went down—even though there was no curtain—he would nestle next to me in Burt’s old MG while I maneuvered the pitch-black half-hour drive back to the beach condo, the newest Reynolds acquisition. Throughout every performance Peter would sit backstage, memorizing all the dialogue as he listened to it float through the wings, while Eli waited impatiently to have his mother all to himself.
Early in ’77, it was announced that the Emmys would be canceled that year due to an ongoing dispute between the New York and Hollywood chapters of the National Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. A new ceremony, the Television Critics Circle Awards, was formed to take its place and Sybil was nominated for five awards: best miniseries, best direction, best screenplay, and two nominations for best actress in a leading role: Joanne and me. But the Television Critics Circle Awards were clearly not the Emmys, and as the date for the ceremony approached everyone seemed to question what the hell they actually were. Even so, my agent wanted me to go, Jackie and Stewart wanted me to go—especially since Joanne had refused to attend any awards ceremony, ever. Burt thought the whole thing seemed rather bogus, not to mention rinky-dink, but was willing to go if that’s what I wanted. It was decided. I would go to the first Television Critics Circle Awards ceremony with Mr. Reynolds on my arm, or rather I would be on his.