It's All In the Playing (9 page)

In any case, this was amazing stuff to deal with on talk shows, or by phone with the call-ins—certainly not your usual chitchat-what-d’you-feed-your-cat talk. I took it very seriously—as seriously as did all those interested in discussing the subject with me.

At the same time, as my book tour progressed, I pursued the preproduction work of casting and so forth on the phone.

The role of Gerry was the most pressing to cast because he began shooting first. Gerry, as written, was English, commanding, highly intelligent, ambitious, humanistically motivated to the point of heartbreak, very
left-brained, charming, and good-looking, with an unruly shock of hair that continually fell over his forehead.

Irrespective of what the real Gerry was like (composites notwithstanding), Colin and I wrote the part with Albert Finney in mind. But to make a complicated story simple, Albie wasn’t available. Soo … the search was on.

Richard Harris was a possibility. His agent, who was most eager for him to open up his career to a large TV audience, loved the script and wanted him to do it. Richard, however, declined. He wrote me a letter explaining his own newly formed and deeply felt spiritual beliefs; because of them he had learned to temper his judgment of others. As a result he felt that Gerry’s incapacity to understand
my
spiritual searching was an invasion of Gerry’s privacy, even though no one really knew who he was.

James Fox was another possibility. But his agent called and said he had become a born-again Christian and wouldn’t play an adulterer.

I had seen Gabriel Byrne in
Christopher Columbus
and was very impressed. However, the day before he received our script he had signed for another movie.

Around about then Colin and I had some intriguing talks relating to the dearth of English leading men. Men who could really kiss the girl. Men who would activate in the audience the understanding of
why
Shirley fell for the man in such a big way—knowing he was married.

Since Leslie Howard, some years ago, and Richard Burton in the last fifteen years, who from the British Isles would you want to get into bed with? Because that’s what Shirley did—impulsively and without regard for the consequences.

Then I remembered
Jewel in the Crown.
I had been very impressed with Charles Dance. He was new. He had had relatively little film experience. But there was something
about his presence that was riveting, particularly when he had the confidence to do nothing.

We inquired about him. Yes, he was available and would like to read the script.

In the meantime, Stan, Colin, and I went to London to “read” other actors, before Charles was available to meet with us.

I was ensconced in the Britannia Hotel with a duplex winding-staircase suite stocked with every kind of booze a good Englishman desires, nuts, chips, chocolates, fruit, flowers, tea, hot scones, and a telephone that always rang on the floor where I wasn’t.

I noticed that the room number of my suite had been taken off. When I asked the manager why, he tactfully tried to tell me that they had heard I was adversely affected by “wrong numbers.” They didn’t know which ones might be the “wrong” ones so he was diplomatically playing it safe by taking them all off.

When I asked him how people were supposed to find my room with no numbers visible, he said typically, “We took the numbers off, madam.” That’s a British explanation.

I put a cardboard sign up on my door with my room number visible.

All the actors’ readings occurred in my suite. I had not often been involved with the pressure and sad humiliation of actors who desperately want and need jobs. I guess I remembered my beginnings, the cruelty of the elimination process, the coldness of “Will you take it from the top and cry?,” the faulty self-image that some actors have of themselves, which is clear to all those who will ultimately reject them until that self-image is in alignment with the role.

One by one they crossed my hotel threshold. One by one we sipped tea together as a preliminary icebreaker before launching into a deeply personal love scene witnessed by three other strangers plus a cold-assed casting
director. My heart turned over each time; my sensitivity to their anxieties superseded any help I could be as an acting partner. I thought of the preparation exercises they must have put themselves through. I thought of how full of trepidation they must be in playing a character I had not only written, but who was a real character in my life. There was false laughter, a lot of nervous smoking, darting eyes, personal insights shared, and perspiration wiped surreptitiously from the backs of necks.

It went on for days. The unknowns were auditioned in this fashion. The famous or semifamous rated a lunch. Depending on the level of their insecurities, they would read the script beforehand. (The secure had no problem discussing what they thought of it. The insecure wanted an offer before they read.) So I just figured having a meal with someone (with no offer) would give me a pretty good idea of how they’d be to work with, chemistry-wise, whether there was an attraction we could build upon, a sense of commanding intelligence, of looseness, or rigidity, how they’d photograph, how tall they were, and whether I could see myself in bed with them or not.

Of course each one of them had read the script whether they admitted it or not. (Actors don’t have lunch to discuss a pending job without knowing how to act.) So somewhere around coffee and dessert we’d segue into what the character “sounded like.” By the time the check came (ABC’s tab), I usually had my answer. We didn’t have our man. I didn’t know what to do.

I finally called my friend Albert Finney one more time. He invited me for dinner. It was a dinner that even today I don’t understand but will never forget because of its vast theatricality. To be with one of the world’s great actors in “real” life sometimes puts “reel” life to shame.

I was walking toward the restaurant when he emerged like a thunderstorm in a black coat from a London cab, his mop of thick brown curls swirling in the London
wind. It was like the arrival of Orson Welles in
Jane Eyre.
He gathered me up in his arms.

“Dear girl. How wonderful! We will have a sumptuous dinner, but first we will survey the new fashions.”

With that, Finney strongly grasped my elbow and guided me along the shop windows, giving me a running commentary on why certain color combinations were pleasing to the eye and how political attitudes generally followed fashion trends—“A little bare skin showing usually means a more liberal attitude. You
do
see that?”

Anything Albie presented was immensely seeable. He “presented” himself at every moment. As he held my arm I felt attached to a magnetic conduit of powerful energy which he bodily converted into theatrical expression. Yes, he gave new meaning to the concept of “presence.”

Soon he ushered me into “his” restaurant—a place he had apparently been frequenting for thirty years. He introduced the wife of the proprietor as his girlfriend, the daughter of the wife as his girlfriend, and every waitress on the way to our table as his girlfriend. Each one of them blushed as though there might have been anticipated truth in every introduction. I thought of the Hollywood heralded playboys I had been around. None of them measured up to this level of the art of theatricalized flirtation. Finney was a show within a show. So later, after ordering several kinds of wine, a seven-course meal, table-hopping with added introductions as he went, I really believed him when he swept his arms in a magnanimous all-embracing gesture around the place and said, “I cast everyone here for your benefit, my dear. This magnificent trio, ‘Trio de Paraguay,’ came all the way from their native land to serenade you. All of these kind people are here to make a rousing party for you. Now let us enjoy what life has to offer.”

Oh, my, he was outrageously appealing with his reckless abandonment of limitation. He ate as though he
was portraying a character in
Le Grand Bouffe
—an orgy of epicurean delight and appreciation. He tucked a napkin under his chin and sipped wine (he knew them all) with gusto—proving that one can, in fact, sip in such an exuberant fashion. Between reveling in mountains of food and richly savoring each variety of wine, he gave the distinct impression that anything less would indicate a hopeless lack in appreciation of the good life. The texture of his sensual pleasure was high drama and I a willing audience. Though I wasn’t sure we could rewrite the part of Gerry to accommodate these qualities I was being privileged to enjoy, I almost didn’t care if they were not in character with the real man.

Then, as the courses came and went, I found that Finney was really interested in metaphysics. I knew he had read
Out on a Limb
and enjoyed it, but delving into the hidden realities I was espousing was another question. Yet indeed he had. First of all he outlined the visitation he had had of a dead relative at night in his bedroom. He leaned forward across the table.

“After that,” he said, “I realized there must be another dimension of reality.”

Maybe it was meant to happen that he would play Gerry after all—even though the real Gerry would have freaked out at a visitation from a dead relative and certainly wouldn’t tell anybody. As I watched Finney eat, I wondered how we could shoot the bathing-suit scenes in Hawaii. Maybe we could play them under a beach blanket.

Finney went on to tell me he had spent magical times in Cuzco and Machu Picchu in Peru. He fantasized about the often-seen spacecraft in the Andes.

“Oh, yes,” he suggested, “I believe actors should be allowed to go up in those spacecraft to create their own improvisational drama so that we could study the effects that weightlessness has on human emotions.”

Albie rose from the table and improvised a small
scene—around which the National Theatre could have built a play. He then proceeded to hop from table to table thanking the diners for working as extras on their night off—particularly for no pay beyond the food. He gestured to me, obviously indicating that it was a celebration in my honor. I bowed and mock-applauded everyone for welcoming me to their country. Not a soul knew what was going on, but they all seemed charmed and amused.

Finney then strode commandingly to the small trio of Paraguayan guitarists and guided them over to me.

“Play for my lady,” he instructed them.

They complied. It was Latin, lovelorn, loud, and long. Albie sat and supped happily through it all. During what I hoped would be the final plaintive love song, I calculated how much time there was left for me to approach him specifically about how much we wanted him for the part. Prior to the evening, Colin and I had agreed that I should have dinner with Albie and that Colin should come afterward for dessert. I had about fifteen minutes left.

The Paraguayan trio left. I leaned forward and prepared to begin my pitch. I saw a flash of panic dart across Albie’s face. Reality—hard-nosed, show-business, “what about a deal” reality—was about to rear its ugly truth in the midst of a dining charade. At that very moment Colin came striding into the restaurant and over to our table. I was thrown by the bad timing. I had told Albie he’d be joining us—which hadn’t seemed to faze him. Now though, Finney’s face registered a mixture of panic and relief. With an opulent flourish he invited Colin to sit and order coffee and a sumptuous dessert. Colin declined.

After a few exchanges of pleasantries—John Huston
Under the Volcano
stories, a discussion of Shakespeare and the “almost culture” of Hollywood—Albie excused
himself, got up, made a few more rounds with the diners in the nearby vicinity, and disappeared.

“How’d it go?” asked Colin.

“You can see,” I answered. “I wish I had it all on videotape. The man is acting out his life. That could be disturbing, and it could mean he’s just rehearsing so he’ll know what to do when the red light goes on.”

Colin nodded knowingly.

“Well, did you discuss the script?”

“Just as I was about to bring it up, you walked in the room. I mean, talk about colossal ill-timing.”

“Yeah,” said Colin. “I wonder what that means karmically.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “It was almost as though you were meant to come in at that moment and squash any discussion. It was really weird. You know what I mean?”

There was no sarcasm on Colin’s face.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I could feel it, too, as though it simply wasn’t meant to go on.”

“Well, let’s see what happens next.”

What happened next was that Finney, in a flustered flurry, came back to our table. He didn’t sit. He stood and delivered the following lines:

“My friends,” he said, “I must take my leave now. I have another friend who desperately needs me.”

With a flourish of kisses he left our table, bade dramatic goodbyes to the “hired” extras still lingering in the restaurant, and was gone (an exit by the lord of the manor) into the stormy London night.

Colin and I stared in shock at each other.

“Do you think he thinks this metaphysical stuff is a load of shit?” Colin asked.

I thought about all that had transpired during Albie’s extravagant dinner.

“No,” I said seriously, “I don’t believe it’s that. But
I have a feeling he’s afraid to go back to work, at least in a film like this one.”

“Well, there are no accidents,” said Colin.

“Yep. But what does this mean?”

Colin thought a moment. “Well,” he finally said, “the guides like McPherson, or Lazaris, would say that Finney has decided he doesn’t want to go on in this particular play and that there is someone else dancing in the wings waiting for the chance.”

I dropped my fork. “Did you say
dancing?”

“Yes.”

“You think you might mean Charles Danceing?”

Colin laughed. “See how it all fits if we can just make ourselves aware of it?”

Even I choked on that one.

   The four of us sat in my hotel suite waiting for Charles Dance to arrive. Rose Tobias Shaw, the English casting director, was busy making phone calls. She turned around.