In those days, an awards ceremony was not treated as if it were the American equivalent of a coronation, the way it is today. But coronation or not, I had no idea how to do any of it. The only awards show I had attended before that, I’d been bedecked in pink taffeta and launched into the audience, two things I wasn’t anxious to do again. This time I purchased a spaghetti-strap dress from I. Magnin department store and sat on the floor of Burt’s enormous bathroom on the day of the ceremony, shortening the floor-length hem while hot rollers cooled in my hair. When at last I slipped into my wine-colored jersey gown, Burt looked at me and with great authority announced that I was too pale. Immediately, he pulled out his personal stash of pancake makeup and rummaged around until he found the half-used cake of Max Factor’s Dark Egyptian—the same stuff that had been slathered on me by an alcohol-smelling body makeup lady using a mildewed sponge in the wee hours of the morning during Gidget. Not only does it itch like crazy when it dries, it also rubs off on everything, and Dark Egyptian is not exactly a subtle shade. But when I think of that moment, standing nervously before a wall of mirrors as Burt carefully painted my exposed body, I realize that I’d take his Earl Scheib job over the finest hair and makeup artist anytime. True, I ended up looking like Sacagawea with very curly hair, but it was what he had to give. And it makes me smile.
That had been a remarkable year on network television. Both Alex Haley’s profoundly important miniseries, Roots, and the made-for-television movie Eleanor and Franklin: The White House Years, which the wonderful Dan Petrie had also directed, were nominated for awards. Needless to say, Sybil didn’t win a Television Critics Circle Award in any category. But it didn’t matter. The whole evening I was so worried about Burt’s health, about the frenzy we had caused at being seen together, and about the unmistakable smudge I was leaving on everyone, I didn’t have much room left to feel disappointed.
Then, three months later, the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences reinstated its award season, and Sybil received the same nominations, which meant this time I was nominated for an Emmy. Unlike Joanne, I didn’t have enough miles in the saddle yet to understand that winning an award is not the truest indication that your work is excellent. I longed to feel that I’d actually conquered something, something that perhaps only I could see, and deeply wanted to be included, to go to the Emmys as a nominee. But my gift card from Burt had already been used up, and when the ceremony rolled around, I was in Santa Barbara, where he was both directing and starring in The End, a film in which I’d been hired to play a small role. For the rest of the shoot, weeks and weeks, I’d stay in order to take care of Mr. Reynolds. As the evening of the ceremony approached, everyone started calling, pleading with me to break away for a few hours, insisting that the studio would send a car, wardrobe would find a dress, and Stewart would be waiting to accompany me. “Go if you want, but be prepared to lose again” were Burt’s words, or maybe the only ones I heard. But what was I looking for? Permission? With only the slightest hint of disapproval from Burt, I felt ashamed of my desire to be accomplished, to be successful, to be recognized, embarrassed that I wanted to attend this award show, to feel that I was no longer a joke in the industry. And if, for a moment, I started to lean in the direction of accepting the studio’s offer, he’d sit on the edge of the bed, gulping air, jabbing his fingers into his chest. I felt stuck in an old pattern: To be loved I had to stop being me. Matter of fact, I had to stop being anyone.
In my journals, I’d constantly write that I wanted to run away, to escape from some hidden trap. But at the same time, I was bending myself into a pleasing shape, a soothing, compliant cup of warm elixir that Burt was then lured into drinking over and over, until he became addicted to the seemingly unconditional love I was offering. And perhaps in that way I was his trap. Once he was undeniably addicted, needing a fix of me, I’d be gone. He would never know what had hit him or how to get another supply. My anger was much more lethal than could easily be seen. Even by me.
I didn’t go to the 1977 Emmy Awards show. And just to make this story even more reminiscent of “The Little Match Girl”—who used her last match for warmth before freezing to death in the frigid night—I ended up watching the show in the rented condo, sitting alone on a stiff living room sofa with the sound turned down so as not to disturb the man who perhaps didn’t know, or maybe didn’t care, how much it meant to me. And as I sat there—matchless in the snow—I heard my name announced.
I’d won the Emmy for Sybil.
19
Norma
HOOPER WAS MY third film with Burt, each role getting smaller and less interesting just as I was getting smaller and less interesting. But honestly, I hadn’t been turning down other projects to play these cookie-cutter characters. Nothing else came my way and I couldn’t even find a project to fight for. I was hanging on, grateful to be earning enough to exist.
Tuscaloosa, Alabama, was the location this time, though for what reason I don’t know, because the Hal Needham–directed film had nothing to do with Alabama and all to do with the rollicking, action-packed life of stuntmen, a kind of homage to the dangers of stunt work. Not only was one of the main characters (played by Brian Keith) named Jocko, but my stepfather—who was now living with his wife in a small apartment in Sherman Oaks—was also given a small role, making the whole thing utterly surreal. And in the midst of this, of spending most of every day shopping for Burt’s dinner, or running his errands, I received word that Marty Ritt wanted to meet with me. Considered to be one of the most important voices in the industry, Marty was responsible for films like Hud, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, The Great White Hope, The Front, and Sounder. He had been a member of New York’s Group Theatre—which eventually became the Actors Studio—and was a revered actor’s director.
Since I was primarily there to take care of their star, the Hooper production didn’t need me for a while. So without looking for Burt’s approval, I agreed to fly home the following morning, informing Burt of my decision without hesitation. He nodded, saying Ritt was a great director, then tossed the subject aside only to pick it up later in the evening when he began coaching me on how to behave in the meeting, treating me as if I were a ten-year-old on my first excursion away from home. I listened to him talk, trying to see his focus as loving, but kept reminding myself that once I was out of his sight, I’d be free. He ended the lecture by criticizing me for running lickety-split back to L.A. without reading the script first or knowing exactly what the meeting was about.
But lickety-split I did run, with zero idea as to what the meeting was about. And not giving a rat’s ass. Not only that, but since my meeting was set for three o’clock at 20th Century Fox and my flight didn’t get in until twelve thirty, I wouldn’t have time to read the screenplay that waited for me at home. Here comes the cavalry: My mother read it for me. She was standing at the front door when the car dropped me off, watching for my arrival as if we’d planned it that way, and as we hugged in a quick greeting she patted my back, saying, “I’ll tell you about it as you get dressed. We can do this.”
While I started yanking things from my closet, trying to decide what on earth to wear, she followed me around, slowly recounting the screenplay while enduring my frantic need for more character details, telling her I didn’t care about her opinion of the story, or whether she would want to see the film, I needed details. Eventually, we both agreed that I couldn’t fake a character I knew nothing about, and that I should go as a blank slate—which should have been easy after living in the shadowland for so long. I dressed all in beige with my long hair pulled back at the base of my neck.
Though I wasn’t late, Marty was waiting for me with his office door wide open, saying nothing as he watched his secretary greet me in the waiting area before ushering me into the room where he stood. Wordlessly, Marty gestured to a straight-backed chair, then moved behind his desk, getting right to the point. “Have you read the script?”
“No,” I replied flatly, though the thought flashed through my head to lie.
“It’s very strong,” he said, then sat quietly as if thinking. We didn’t chat so he could determine if I was right for the role, there were no pages he wanted to hear me read, he merely sat in his polyester jumpsuit, wearing big, smudge-covered glasses, and watched me. And even though his focus never wavered, I didn’t feel uncomfortable, there weren’t awkward moments of being judged. He simply looked directly into my eyes, asking nothing of me but to be as unguarded as he was. When he finally spoke, he said, “You were quite good in Sybil… very good.”
“Thank you,” I answered, without a hint of humility.
He then asked me a question I’d never expected. “Are you serious about your work?”