Why is it easier for me to write about the times in my life that felt humiliating or shameful? Is it because those are the things that haunt me? Do I hold on to those dark times as a badge of honor, are they my identity? The moments of triumph stay with me but speak so softly that they’re hard to hear—and even harder to talk about.
I remember my tiny corner room on the eighth floor in the big Carlton Hotel, and how I had packed for the South of France not knowing that the South of France can be freezing in May, and how I would wrap myself in the twin-size satin duvet and stand in front of the armoire, sliding my few flimsy outfits back and forth, wishing something warm would miraculously appear. I remember how the phones rarely worked when I tried to call the kids, and how I never felt the pressure of Burt since we weren’t speaking. And the French windows opening out onto the Croisette—the promenade along the beach below—and how I’d stand outside on the half-moon balcony, watching the carnival-like commotion, and later, the swarm of paparazzi taking pictures of me while I used my Instamatic camera to take pictures of them. I felt like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday—seeing a whole new world after spending a lifetime locked behind the palace gates.
Before the new Palais des Festivals was built in 1983, films at the Cannes Film Festival premiered in an enormous theater, famously atop twenty-four majestic stone stairs. The interior of the theater looked like a movie set for The Phantom of the Opera, and those associated with the film were seated for the screening in a grand baroque balcony at the back of this Gothic space. I had never seen the film with an audience, much less with one of the notorious audiences at Cannes—didn’t even know they were notorious until the night before, when Marty and Laddy tried to prepare me. Throughout the dinner they carefully explained that, unlike demure American audiences, this group could react vociferously if they didn’t like what they saw. And if they weren’t booing, then they were walking out in droves. I wasn’t sure how anyone could be prepared for that.
By the time we were finally grouped together in the elaborate balcony I was almost catatonic with nerves, and when Marty, Beau, and I were separated from the others, then seated in the front row, my knees were literally knocking. This was the Queen Mary of theaters and being in the front row of the back balcony felt like we were on the edge of Mount Everest. Not only were my knees vibrating, but I was now flooded with vertigo and the fear that if I stood up too fast, I’d tumble over the edge onto the velvet seats below, dead before the lights even went down. But then they did go down, and the film flickered away.
Marty held my hand the whole time.
Every scene felt torturously long, without a single entertaining moment, topped off with the achingly slow roll of the end credits, an endless list that went on and on while everyone in the packed opera house sat, making no noise at all. They didn’t applaud, but hell, they didn’t boo either. They were motionless in their seats. When the studio’s logo finally scrolled by, there was a moment of darkness, and then, suddenly, bright spotlights flared onto the balcony, smack into our faces. And in one connected group, the people below rose to their feet, turned to us, and cheered. They stood applauding for ten minutes. Marty—who had been holding my hand because I was visibly trembling—gently slid away, moving to the side, extending his arm in my direction as he retreated. And I heard the surge that was meant only for me, the sound of that universal appreciation, recognition, and regard for my work. I started to cry.
I won the Palme d’Or for best actress and went on to win every award for best actress that existed in the United States that year. Including the Academy Award.
21
Me, My Mother, and Mary Todd
AFTER NORMA RAE I was considered to be an honest-to-God movie star. Although I was never besieged with offers the way I’d always dreamed it would be, every year one compelling screenplay would come my way and I’d be thrilled, not to mention relieved. But even after winning my second Academy Award in 1984 for Places in the Heart—a film I was proud to be a part of—I never saw myself as being an important, highly sought-after talent at the top of my game.
Slowly, very slowly, I became aware of a soft buzzing, a voice telling me to prepare myself because soon my hard-fought position would be gone. Even as I tried to evolve into each phase of my career, building a production company, developing and producing films—including Murphy’s Romance, which my beloved friend Marty Ritt directed—this whispering voice kept repeating that before long I’d be facing the same mountain that I had just climbed, but without the strength to move anymore.
When I was thirty-eight, a rather flimsy project was presented to me, and while the film might have been dull, the producer was not. He was a tall, gentle man who enjoyed being around people, someone who made friendships less difficult for me. He was easy to like, good to have around, and since I wanted a family and needed to feel safe, I married him. That was Alan. Once again, I packed up my two sons, now twelve and fifteen, and we all moved, this time to a home in Brentwood.
Three years later, when Eli was preparing to get his driver’s license and Peter was a freshman in college, I gave birth to my third son. At forty-one, I was the mother of a newborn again and it didn’t hit me until Sam was five weeks; as a parent, I was starting all over—from the very bottom of the mountain.
I remember sitting in the baby’s room wrapped in the arms of a huge stuffed bear that had been flung into the corner, feeling stunned. I was looking down at this tiny stranger’s face nursing at my breast when suddenly I didn’t want to do any of it anymore. It wasn’t that I didn’t adore this little boy whose eyes had instantly latched onto mine. It was that I didn’t want to love him as deeply as I knew I would. Didn’t want to care about my work or whether Peter was finding his way or Eli was driving safely. Didn’t want to worry about money or my weight or what to cook for dinner. After spending my whole adult life struggling to find more, the only thing I wanted now was to put a Closed sign on my forehead and sit in this corner staring at the wall. Perhaps in that way Alan had been a perfect choice. Without meaning to, and through no fault of his own, he had allowed me to become a stationary, lifeless lump, unseen by him and unaware of myself.
For all ten years of our marriage we lived in that one place, the Brentwood house. But like a dog chewing on a hot spot, I was constantly fussing with it, irritated and uncomfortable. Endlessly I’d move the furniture from room to room, then change all the carpets and the paint color, remodeling the whole thing more than once. Even after deciding that it wasn’t the house causing my discomfort but the marriage, even after divorcing Alan with one unemotional blow, I remained stationary. Ultimately, I lived in the Brentwood house for almost nineteen years, telling myself it was better for Sam. But in reality, I didn’t know where to move or how to find comfort.