The majority of the cast were present, starting with instantly likeable, easy, and funny Ron Leibman, set to play Reuben—the Jewish New York union organizer. The brilliant Pat Hingle was to be Norma’s father, Barbara Baxley her mother, and Gail Strickland was cast as her best friend. The only major character not there was Norma’s husband, being played by Beau Bridges (Jeff’s older brother), who was finishing another film and wouldn’t be arriving until the second week of production. Just as everyone was settling around the table, Marty called me to the back of the room along with Gail, whom I had instantly bonded with. As the two of us stood in the corner wondering why we’d been summoned, Marty looked directly at Gail and said, “You know you too could have played Norma, you’re a strong actor. But I gave this one to Sally. Your time will come.” I was so struck by that. Not only was it a kind and generous thing to do, but it was also incredibly insightful. He didn’t know either of us at that point, and he needed a believable friendship to be instantly created on-screen, one in which neither of us was more or less important than the other. He was helping us to pave that road. Plus, he understood actors, understood how much they want to be given the opportunity to do complicated, interesting work. I wanted it. Gail wanted it.
During that first week, I hardly looked at my new director. He was matter-of-fact and perfunctory, as though he didn’t want to waste precious time being charming, so he wasn’t. Even in the second week, I looked in his eyes only when he stood in front of me, quietly urging me to go further with what I was doing or suggesting I add a new ingredient, always speaking the kind of acting language I understood. And as I began to find and expand Norma, from the length of her stride, to the twang of her accent, to the heat-induced slowing of her rhythm, I felt Marty’s trust in me expand, approving my choices, appreciating my skill. But Norma was mine, and though he never tried to manipulate or invade the character with some preconceived vision of his own, Marty knew how to take what I was presenting and hone it. He understood the use of activity and the power of stillness, how to complicate and simplify a performance at the same time. He warned actors to be aware of when they nodded their heads and said, “Yes” at the same time, underlining with their bodies what was coming out of their mouths. Marty called it “capitulating to the moment,” one of the many Martyisms that I began to use constantly. “Aggressively illiterate” was another Martyism, this one having little to do with acting and a whole lot to do with the Republicans.
When we began to shoot, I could feel Marty’s excitement at the prospect of challenging me, not like Jocko had done with his aluminum pole of humiliation, but with the sheer joy of watching me explore, of seeing me flat-out fling myself toward his suggestions, showing him that I could keep all those balls in the air while daring him to throw me another. It was as if we were playing a game of competing skills and my desire to please him was not about diminishing myself, but about finding how far I could stretch my wings.
On the set working with Marty while fabulous Ron Leibman watches.
But sweetness and light Marty was not, often becoming a gruff curmudgeon, impatient with actors who were unable to change their performance or even a line reading to adapt to what he wanted, and downright sharp with an actor who was late or lazy or indulgent. If an actor or a crewmember—including the cinematographer—ever stopped or cut the scene themselves, he’d go apeshit. It didn’t matter if you forgot your words or fell in a ditch or swallowed your tongue, you kept going. And never would he stand for anyone instructing the actors other than the director. If another actor casually commented on or tried to correct another’s performance, watch out. The performances belonged to the director and the actor hired to play the role, period. Anyone wanting to make a comment had to go through Marty, and even then, it might not be welcomed. When I once heard his wife, Adele, quietly try to express an opinion, he replied with a wry grin, “Well, when you direct your film, I suggest you try that.”
That’s not to say that he didn’t value everyone’s specific participation. He never took a “film by” credit, saying that when he had written, photographed, edited, and acted in it, playing all the roles, then it would be a Marty Ritt film. Our husband and wife screenwriters, the brilliant Harriet (Hank) Frank Jr. and Irving Ravetch (who had also written Hud), were on the set every day, constantly conferring with Marty on the sidelines, and yet I never knew what their comments were—although as time went on, I was able to decipher a Ravetch note from a Ritt.
Strict as Marty sometimes seemed, his rules never felt like an invasion but a protection, a safe space created for the actors to explore. And in that space, he invited and encouraged any notion an actor could come up with. But at the same time, he was never unsure or wishy-washy. If he didn’t like what an actor was doing, that actor sure as hell knew it. He was a no-nonsense man who wore a one-piece jumpsuit—often food-stained—and never adhered to anyone’s book of etiquette. He bluntly said what was on his mind, didn’t chitchat, coddle, or patronize. If you came to him with a whining complaint he’d say, “I’ll run you a benefit.” Which basically meant, get on with it. He was direct and succinct, but always generous with his intelligence, his passion, his delicious sense of humor, and his wisdom. He said what he meant and meant what he said.
When we were about three weeks into our nine-week shoot, moving along so swiftly we tried to slow down for fear the studio wouldn’t take us seriously, Marty knocked on the door of my motor home, opened it, and stepped inside without waiting to hear my response. I sat frozen on the sofa, my needlepoint in midair as he plopped down on the swivel chair across from me. Because he’d never been in my camper before, I worried that I’d done something wrong—which is no big surprise—but when he acted as though he’d just wandered in, like he had nothing else to do, I suddenly felt shy. What would I say to him? We’d been together socially several times when Adele had gatherings in their bungalow next to mine, small dinner parties that usually included other members of the cast and crew, and once it had been only the three of us. But Marty and I had never been alone together.
As he looked out the window, watching the smattering of crew weaving around the pine trees, he began talking about the spinning room and the dinosaur-like machines that several of us had learned to operate. He laughingly told me that one of the actors had to walk outside because the old wooden floor’s swaying vibrations had made them seasick and asked me why I hadn’t needed a break. After I told him I was too busy to think about it, and he refused to tell me which actor it was, we sat in an easy silence. Then he stood, looked at his watch, and with a “time to mosey back to the set” attitude, stepped down into the well of the door and grabbed hold of the handle. He paused for a moment, then turning to look at me said, “I want you to know, Sal… you’re first-rate. Just wanted to tell you.” With that he left the trailer, closing the door behind him. No amount of applause, praise, or accolades that I might receive in my lifetime will ever mean more to me than those few words from Marty Ritt.