It's All In the Playing (12 page)

“Listen,” she said. “I know you wrote me as a foil
for you. I have some problems with that anyway,” she began.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, since my full dimension isn’t being portrayed—and,” she went on, “I know, it’s your story, not mine. But since I’m only a foil I want to protect myself by playing the foil
my
way. You can’t have it both ways.”

Bella was smart and personally self-confident. Everything she was saying made sense from her point of view. I tried to explain that the comedic political lines wouldn’t work with her playing herself, because her very presence would demand more than the story could accommodate. Yet, if an
actress
portrayed her, the comedy focus would be acceptable, and as a matter of fact would probably get her votes when she decided to run again.

“When is this thing going to air?” she asked shrewdly.

“Either May or November. Brandon Stoddard is not sure yet.”

“But November is after the election if I decide to run for Congress.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’ll tell Brandon it better be May if he knows what’s good for him. He’ll contact the affiliates and all the advertisers immediately.”

I heard her laugh that gutsy no-nonsense rumble that comes from her belly.

“God, it’s good to hear that,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I take this as a personal rejection brought on by the network which is afraid of my political image.”

“Oh, Bella. C’mon. That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“I know you’re not telling me because you’re not willing to fight them. They’re afraid of me and what I represent—
that’s
why they don’t want to use me and you know it.”

This I never expected. “Bella,” I protested. “It’s
me
who doesn’t want to use you. That’s the truth. Neither
the network or Brandon or any of those guys has interfered with anything I want to do. This is a purely artistic decision. I’m looking for who would be the best to play you, not only for the good of the show but also for the good of your next election. You’ll get a lot of votes if this part is played right.”

I could have been a lobbyist myself. On the other hand, some part of what I said didn’t sound right.

“Are you telling me,” she said, “that anybody besides
me
would play me better than I would play me? And that somebody else would get more votes than
I
would?”

I gulped. “Yes,” I said. “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

She hesitated. “Well,” she said finally. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve talked to a lot of my friends and they think it is a natural that I play myself.”

I really didn’t know what to say. We never should have read her in the first place. What would this do to our relationship? We had certainly had our ups and downs, but this time I was the cause of her rejection.

“Listen,” she said finally. “I know they were thinking of Marilyn Bergman to play me. It’s ridiculous. Even though she’s a friend of mine, she’s a songwriter.”

“Yes, Bella,” I said. “I know. Marilyn was someone else’s idea, not mine. She’s not an actress. We’d have the same problem of emotional discipline with anyone who isn’t an actress. That’s why we’re using Anne Jackson.”

“Anne Jackson.” She said the name as if it were the dog’s dinner.

“Yeah,” I said. “One of the most brilliant actresses in the American theater. She loves you.”

“She’s got red hair.”

“So do you—
now.”

“She has blue eyes.”

“We’ll make her use contacts.”

“How can she walk like me?”

“She can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s much thinner.”

Bella began to mock-whimper. “Now you’re insulting me. Why are you always right? Why does it have to be your way all the time?”

I sighed deeply into the phone. “Well, my darling, because this is what they call show business.”

“Well, why can’t I be the star of my own self?”

“Look at it this way, Bellitchka.
You
are going to be the reason that Anne Jackson will be great. And everyone will think you are really that warm and funny.”

“Well, aren’t I?”

“Yes, of course you are, and much, much more too. But we can’t draw attention to the fact that we’re not utilizing all of you.”

I heard her light a cigarette and blow the smoke into the phone, calculating her next move. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m underutilized all the way around. That’s my big problem in life. And
you,
my good and best friend, are preventing me too.”

I thought I’d let a pregnant pause go by. Maybe she’d think she was going too far. But that’s not possible with Bella. What she said next was really hard to answer.

“Listen,” she pressed. “Those mediums are playing themselves, right?”

“Right.”

“And those ghosts, dead people types are playing themselves, right?”

“Bella, they are not ghosts and they’re not dead people. Nobody ever dies. You know that.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re killin’ me!”

“Okay. Go on.”

“Well, those spirits then. They’re playing themselves.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Well, why can’t I be given the same respect as a spirit?”

“Because,” I said flatly, “you’ve got too much to live for and I don’t want you to die in the part.”

I could feel her begin to rise to yet another challenge, almost as though combat was her pleasure, not victory. In any case, I begged off as gently as possible and hung up.

Stan poked his head around the corner.

“Slight hitch,” he said. “John Heard’s manager called. He’s decided he can’t play the part because it’s against his religion.” Stan shoved a piece of paper on the desk.

“Here,” he said. “These are some other possibilities.”

A sledgehammer hit my throat and I suddenly couldn’t swallow. My throat closed in a tight squeeze of soreness. I wanted to laugh out loud but it hurt too much. It was clear that I was feeling so constricted in communicating what I wanted and needed that I had instantly given myself a sore throat. It wasn’t the first time. Each time I got the flu or a cold, or certainly a sore throat, upon reflection I realized it was tied directly to an emotional disappointment. What made me want to laugh was how fast I could manifest the self-recrimination these days. What used to take a day or two was possible in a few minutes now. A metaphysical sophisticate said to me once: “Isn’t it wonderful that you manifest a cold and a runny nose for yourself so that you can release all the pent-up tension and unbalance.” As the fly said when he walked over the mirror: “That’s one way of lookin’ at it.”

I sat down and stared at the wall. As far as John Heard was concerned, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It was too right. As far as I was concerned, he was meant to play the part. That was why I couldn’t think seriously of anybody else. The question now was how to handle his insecurity. He wasn’t a devout Catholic. He was more like a collapsed Catholic. So what was
the real reason? If there
was
one. If he wasn’t just game-playing.

After about fifteen minutes of thought, I called Bill, John’s manager.

“What’s up, Bill?” I asked. “I thought he loved the idea.”

“Well, yeah, but you know John,” he answered.

“I see,” I said prophetically. “But be more specific. What’s this about its being against his religion? Didn’t he know that when he read it? It’s taken a while for the deal to be made. How come he let all that happen?”

“Yeah, well, that’s not it.”

“What’s
it
then?”

“You want to talk to John? To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

Bill arranged for John to take my call in about fifteen minutes. John said, “Hi. It’s not my religion. It’s my dentist.”

“Oh, that again,” I answered knowingly.

“Yes, and Melissa.”

“Melissa?”

“Yes. My girl.”

“You mean you’ll miss her?”

I could sense his head tilt on the other end of the phone.

“Well, you know. She has real white skin. And she spends a lot of time in balconies.”

“Balconies?” I asked. (When in doubt, repeat.)

“Yeah.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Sooo.”

“So?”

“Yeah. I mean can you get room service at midnight?”

“Where, John?”

“Well, when I’m hungry.”

“I think we can make sure there’s always food around.”

“I’m bulky. Did you like how I tried to hide my fat stomach with the navy-blue shirt?”

“Yeah. It was pretty clever. But I like you chunky. I think it’s cute.”

“Melissa doesn’t think I’m cute. She thinks I’m a fuck-head.”

“Are you?”

“But of course.”

“So tell me why you’re coolin’ on the part, John.”

He didn’t hesitate. The other was just a preamble both of us understood.

“Because,” he said, “I’m not sure I can give you what you want. I mean, you really lived this stuff. How do I know what you’re talking about?”

“Well,” I said, “I liked the way you
made
it your own. I had not imagined it the way you did it. It was
better.
And you might have noticed I’m not married to anything preconceived.”

Somehow during the silence that then prevailed I realized he was thinking about the Catholic Church.

“Listen, John,” I said, “if you are worried about the Church’s reactions to what we’ve written, Standards and Practices [the network’s clearance department] has already gone through it all and approved it.”

“They have?” he asked apprehensively.

“Yes. And my research matches theirs.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s not really the reason. I mean, the Church fucked me up so bad that I really don’t worry about that.”

When John spoke with clarity it was indisputable.

“Let me think about it all tonight,” he said. “I’ll call you in Malibu eleven A.M. your time.”

It was another man talking.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He hung up. I walked to Stan’s office.

“Listen,” he said. “Good news.”

“What?”

“Standards and Practices finally concedes the script is correct. They found a turtle that lived to be two hundred and fifty years old.”

“Great,” I said. “Can he act?”

   Charles Dance arrived for his first rehearsal with the director, Bob Butler. Up to then, I think Charles thought Colin Higgins was the director. He did not know that in American television the producer is the creative mind. The director just sort of makes it happen.

Charles sat with a befitting Greek-godlike slouch in slacks and shirt, disturbing his ginger-haired perfection only by not wearing any socks under his businesslike shoes. Butler, in a khaki jacket, glowing with robust health, ruddy complexion, and rugged profile, nevertheless had a nervous scowl on his face. He had never met Charles before. Butler had had little input on casting Charles and John. He was scouting locations, designing sets, assembling the crew, and so on. So he was in the enviable position, should anything go wrong, of saying “What the hell did you pick these guys for?” I couldn’t help but remember that he still thought he was the only sane person in the group.

His opening speech to Charles, however, was not exactly Shakespeare.

“As I press forward on this project, Charles,” he said, “I’m sure the big ‘If’ will be the guy in Milwaukee with the beer. Will he say ‘Harriet, come in here and look at this,’ or will he turn the dial? Is he smarter than all of us or should we worry about him at all?”

Charles blinked several times, stumped as to whether Butler really wanted an answer. I couldn’t resist.

“All in all, Bob,” I said, “I say, fuck Milwaukee.”

Charles shifted his position in the swivel chair.

“Well,” replied Butler, unperturbed, “that’s certainly an option.”

He grimaced and picked at one of his fingers. “But,” he continued, “collectively, Milwaukee and Harriet is real smart. You can hate them yelling separately in bars and want to hit them over the head when they tell you individually what they think. But I put them together and there’s nobody smarter. So if I’m lookin’ up with a confused look on my face, it’s because I’m thinking about Milwaukee and Harriet. It’s your call. Help.”

I clamped my hand over my mouth.

Charles surreptitiously passed me a paper with something written on it. It said:
Is this a television dialect?

I looked blankly ahead of me.

We proceeded to rehearse. Bob interspersed comments such as: “Well, that scene has zero wiggle in it,” or “Let’s do it again till we can taste the green.” But the best piece of his dialect, which was to become familiar, came when we finished a particularly dramatic scene. Again Bob’s comment was “I’ll sign anything!”

Charles looked at the director with wary calm, as though he were a restless native. I looked at Butler, remembering that his wife owned a bookstore and hence he knew all about the search for spiritual awareness in the marketplace. Somewhere in between lay the real Bob Butler.

Charles began to acquaint himself with Century City, ABC, the freeways, and room service at his hotel. We were to begin shooting in London in a week, but he had a few weeks later on in Los Angeles.

I took the phone call from John Heard the next morning.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember the day I left the Gonzaga [a Catholic school in Washington, D.C.] dorm. I was supposed to be in the play that week. I overslept—the alarm didn’t go off. The fathers said whoever did that would be expelled. So, shit, when I finally woke up and knew I was out anyway, I got in this car and went over to
W-L for the football game. See, I’m from your neck of the woods.”

He was right. I had gone to Washington Lee High School in Arlington, Virginia, and except for the age difference would probably have been cheerleading that night.

“So,” I said, “I guess this is right karma that we meet again.”

“And I don’t know what time we got back. It was a dark-blue car.”

“I see.”

“So,” he continued, “I’m expelled.”

“Yeah? From what?”

“I can’t say the dialogue. I mean, I never could see those flower children walking up to people in airports.”