Kitabı oku: «Then Again», sayfa 3

Dear Diary,

For Christmas Kenny put on a production called Amahl and the Night Visitors. Megan was the lead. Boy, does everybody primp over her or what? For instance, Judy says, “Megan, are you cold?” Virginia says, “Megan, here, take my coat.” Meanwhile, I’m freezing. Do you think they’d offer me their coat?

Kenny had a long talk with me today and said that he would be using me a lot next year. And that someday I’d be a great comedian. Har de har.

Kenny Akin

Kenny Akin was known as “Mr. Music of Orange County.” He looked like a six-foot-four version of Howdy Doody without Buffalo Bob pulling the strings. Even though I couldn’t process the meaning of my student-teacher relationship with this larger-than-life character, I must have instinctively known he was a means to an end. Besides producing and directing Kismet, Oklahoma!, and Babes in Toyland, Kenny Akin managed his own voice-and-dramatics studio and portrayed leading tenor roles in numerous productions from Los Angeles to San Bernardino County. Kenny’s protégée, Megan, and I were both thirteen, but Megan was poised and attractive and had an all-out killer voice. No getting around it: Kenny thought Megan was as close to perfection as a person could be. In his eyes I was one thing only—WRONG.

Thank God he never bought into my brand of appeal. His rejection gave me the will to persist long enough to find a loophole that would force him to give me a chance. As always, my loophole was Mom. Over a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter, I told her how Kenny gave all the big parts to Megan. Mom didn’t say anything; she just shook her head. But I know for a fact she had a little chat with Mr. Akin, because a few days later I saw them through a crack in his study door. All I can say is Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall could be very convincing when it came to her children.

After Mother’s chat, I was assigned bit parts that led to Raggedy Ann in Babes in Toyland. I must have scored big, because Kenny started to take me more seriously. That’s when I started to take him less seriously. It wasn’t long before I told Mother I didn’t want to study with Kenny anymore. I’d learned all I needed to know from him. I couldn’t articulate my thoughts, but with enough experience under my belt, I’d learned how to hold my own at least long enough to find my way to an audience. The audience would decide my fate, not Mr. Kenny Akin. I always thought I’d be crushed by people who didn’t buy into me. But I wasn’t. There would be many Kenny Akinses who found themselves stuck with me whether they liked it or not.

Applause

There was no discussion with my parents on the night I sang “Mata Hari” in our Santa Ana High School production of the musical Little Mary Sunshine. Under the direction of our drama teacher, Mr. Robert Leasing, the production was worthy of Broadway—at least, that’s what it was like for me. I was Nancy Twinkle, the second lead, who loves to flirt with men. Little did I know that her big song, “Mata Hari,” would be a showstopper. I ran around the stage singing about the famous spy “who would spy and get her data by doing this and that-a,” ending with a grand finale featuring me sliding down a rope into the orchestra pit. That was when I heard the explosion. It was applause. When Mom and Dad found me backstage, their faces were beaming. Dad had tears in his eyes. I’d never seen him so excited. More than excited—surprised. That’s what it was. I could tell he was startled by his awkward daughter—the one who’d flunked algebra, smashed into his new Ford station wagon with the old Buick station wagon, and spent a half hour in the bathroom using up a whole can of Helene Curtis hairspray. For one thrilling moment I was his Seabiscuit, Audrey Hepburn, and Wonder Woman rolled into one. I was Amelia Earhart flying across the Atlantic. I was his heroine.

Later, Dad would boast about my career, but it was “Mata Hari” that became our watershed moment. There were no words. It was all—every timeless second—encapsulated in his piercing light-blue eyes. The ones Mom fell in love with. There was no going back.

PART TWO

3
MANHATTAN

The Neighborhood Playhouse

I don’t remember getting on the plane that took me three thousand miles away from home when I was nineteen. I don’t remember what I was wearing or what the flight was like. I don’t remember kissing my family goodbye. I remember the bus ride to the city. I remember the YWCA. It was on the West Side. I remember checking in to a tiny room. I remember sitting on the stoop, watching people rush past buildings. I was in the city of my dreams. Every New Year’s Eve I’d sat in front of our twenty-one-inch Philco Predicta television set and watched the ball drop in Times Square. New York was wall-to-wall mile-high buildings. It was the opposite of dinky Santa Ana or even Los Angeles. It was Times Square, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and the Chrysler Building too. But most of all it was New Year’s Eve. It was hundreds of thousands—no, millions—of people gathered together to celebrate the ringing in of a new year. I wanted to stand with them too, right there, right in front of the Broadhurst Theatre, where hits like Pal Joey, Auntie Mame, and The World of Suzie Wong played to packed houses. New York was movies too, movies like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was Audrey Hepburn with the endless cigarette holder dangling from her perfect mouth. New York was my destiny; I was going to study at the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre. I was going to be an actress. And I was ready. That’s when the doorman came over and told me not to sit in front of the Y. That’s all I remember: the city, the room, how ready I was, and “Don’t sit on the stoop.”

At the Neighborhood Playhouse, it was Sandy Meisner. He wore a camel’s hair coat. He smoked and everyone said he was homosexual, even though he’d been married. I’d never heard of a married man who was gay but looked straight. He was mesmerizing and mean and the first grown man I ever thought of as sexy. I loved the ashes that were as long as the cigarette that dangled from his mouth. I loved how they fell onto his camel’s hair coat. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was the most exotic man I’d ever seen.

In Mr. Meisner’s acting class, there were no accolades. Things didn’t go like that. To Sandy, acting was about reproducing honest emotional reactions. He felt that the actor’s job was to prepare for an “experiment that would take place onstage.” His approach was designed “to eliminate all intellectuality from the actor’s instrument and to make him a spontaneous responder,” which could be learned by practicing the Repetition Game. It went like this. A partner—let’s say Cricket Cohen—would make an observation about me. “Diane, you have brown hair.” I listened and repeated the sentence she spoke. “I have brown hair.” Observing some aspect of my hair, Cricket might say, “Your brown hair is also straight and thin.” I would respond with something like, “Yes, my hair is straight and thin.” She would embellish, adding, “Very thin.” I would reply, “You’re right, it is thin, very thin, but not curly like yours.” The implication being, “You got a problem, asshole?” She would respond, “At least my hair is not too thin.” Meaning something to the effect of, “Lay off, bitch. Go back to Santa Ana where you belong.” And on and on, until we both ended up expressing a variety of emotions based on our reactions to each other’s behavior. I took to the Repetition Game like a fish to water.

Sandy Meisner also introduced us to the world of playing with our feelings, especially the embarrassing ones. I learned to use my suppressed anger to good effect. I could cry on a dime, explode, forgive, fall in love, fall out, all in a matter of moments. My weakness? I was “too general.” At the end of the second year, he cast me as Barbara Allen in Dark of the Moon. Rehearsals were fraught with anxiety. One day I entered stage right, singing, “A witch boy from the mountain came, a-pinin’ to be human, for he had seen the fairest gal, a gal named Barbara Allen.” Meisner yelled as only he could, “Why are you traipsing around like you’re Doris fucking Day?”

Sandy taught us to respond to our partner’s behavior. End of discussion. He forced us to hang in with the truth of the moment. No questions. He made observing and listening a prelude to expression. Point-blank. He was simple and direct. Without embellishing, he gave us the freedom to chart the complex terrain of human behavior within the safety of his guidance. It made playing with fire fun. I loved exploring the shared moment, as long as Sandy was watching. There was one cardinal rule: “Respond to your partner first, and think later.” If you broke that rule, he would start laying on the one-liners. “There’s no such thing as nothing.” “In the theater, silence is an absence of words, but never an absence of meaning.” “May I say as the world’s oldest living teacher, ‘Fuck polite!’” More than anything, Sandy Meisner helped me learn to appreciate the darker side of human behavior. I always had a knack for sensing it but not yet the courage to delve into such dangerous, illuminating territory.

The First Year

Dear Family,

The Rehearsal Club is on 53rd Street, right down the block from the Museum of Modern Art. I wish you could see it. It’s an old brownstone. All I can think of is how lucky I am to be rooming with Pam, who is also a new student at the Neighborhood Playhouse. Thank you so much for helping me out. I feel safe, and there’s a lot of other young women who live here, like Sandy Duncan, who is my age but already works professionally, I think as a dancer. All us gals share a phone down the hall. The Rockettes hog it. They have more money, I guess, or maybe they’re just lonely. I don’t know. They work hard, and look hard too. Probably because of all that makeup they wear. I wouldn’t want to be a Rockette for all the money in the world.

School is intense. From 9–5 every day. Wow! I’m very pleased to be working with my partner, Cricket Cohen. She’s excellent to play off of. We practice all the time, and we seem to be doing well. I hope so anyway.

By now, Dorrie’s either a Willard Junior High School cheerleader or not. I hope she got it. Why isn’t Randy dating anyone yet? What’s happening with Robin besides the fact she gave up flag twirling for homework? Wow! Oh, well, I’ve got to study my lines for this scene from Clifford Odets’s Waiting for Lefty. Keep sending photographs. I miss you all.

Love, Diane

Hey, Everyone,

Can’t get to sleep tonight. I feel like I’ve had 5 or 6 cups of black coffee. I got the money you sent. Thank God. Only one more month of the Rehearsal Club, and Pam. I don’t think I should say it like that; I mean, sharing a room has been a real learning experience. I just can’t wait to get home for summer. I’m really nervous about whether I’ll get asked back for the second year. What if I don’t?

I’m here sitting in class doing nothing because my partner, Bernie, hasn’t learned his lines. What a waste of time. Bernie is so annoying. If Mr. Meisner thinks our scene is lousy, it’s going to hurt my chances for next year. He already got rid of Laura, who happened to be really amazing. Do you think I should ask for a new partner? Or would that make me a creep? If I lay into Bernie, it’s not going to do any good. And anyway, he’s completely nuts.

How is everyone? What’s new? Has Domino still got too many fleas? Is Randy shaving yet? How are the pimples on Robin’s forehead? And what about Dorrie Bell? Everything still fit as a fiddle?

Take care,

Love, Diane

The Second Year

Dear Mom,

I can’t stand it. The second year is so much harder. Mr. Meisner is really pushing us to expand into interpretation. I don’t know how to create a character. I understand the repetition exercise, but being someone else? And everyone’s so much more competitive this year. Nobody is sloughing off. It makes me nervous. Meisner keeps telling us we have to be more specific. As you know, that’s the area I have the most trouble. We’re performing singing scenes for the 1st year soon. You’ll never guess what I’m doing. MR. SNOW from Carousel. Again? I’m sick of Mr. Snow. In acting class we’re doing Restoration scenes, which is by far beyond me.

See you in a month. I can’t wait to come home for Christmas.

Much love,

Diane

Mr. and Mrs. Jack N. Hall:

The Neighborhood Playhouse School of the

Theatre cordially invites you to attend Dark of the

Moon, a program to demonstrate the work now

in progress, February 16 and 17, 1967.

Mom and Dad … Doesn’t this crack you up? They sent this to me instead of you. Get back here quick so you can come see it. I hope you like my interpretation of Barbara Allen. I sing that Joan Baez song. It’s beautiful. Richard Pinter is brilliant as the Witch Boy. I hope a lot of agents come.

Love,

Diane

And they did. The several agents who came seemed interested, but no one signed me up. At the end of my two years at the playhouse, Sandy Meisner sent me into the world of auditions with a nod, saying, “Someday you’re going to be a good actress.”

Hair

After the Neighborhood Playhouse, I hung out with other second-year students who were panicked about the future. We didn’t know where we would live, much less how to become working actors. Richard Pinter, my Dark of the Moon co-star, became a very close friend. Sarah Diehl and Nola Safro were around, and so was Guy Gillette, whose band, the Roadrunners, occasionally featured me singing songs like Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” (Insane, and a complete disaster.)

Luckily, Hal Baldridge from the playhouse got me a job at the Woodstock Playhouse, where I appeared in The Pajama Game and Oh! What a Lovely War. It was the Summer of Love, and somehow I met my first famous man, Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary and “If I Had a Hammer” fame. He sort of took me under his wing for a couple of days. We were hanging out at his manager Albert Grossman’s place. I had no idea Peter was a political activist who organized peace festivals or that he marched with Martin Luther King. I felt awkward and uninformed with such sophisticated people and left early. He must have known I wasn’t ready for the big time, because I never heard from him again. To be so close to stardom and so far away was exciting but challenging and disappointing at the same time.

When I got my Actors’ Equity card, it was the end of Diane Hall. Apparently there was a Diane Hall in good standing. I decided to use Dorrie’s name instead of Di, Danielle, or Dede Hall for the part of “Factory Worker” in The Pajama Game. Snapping out of what must have been a self-induced stupor, I realized it was ludicrous to borrow my sister’s name, so I became Cory Hall for the stellar role of “Ensemble” in Oh! What a Lovely War. Cory and Dorrie? That’s when it dawned on me I could keep it all in the family by using Mom’s maiden name. Keaton. Diane Keaton.

Dear Gang,

I had an audition last night for a rock musical called Hair. I go back tomorrow for the final elimination. I’ve got my fingers crossed. I really hope I get it. I’m also supposed to try out for some sort of TV pilot, which doesn’t pay unless it sells. We’ll see.

I’m frantically looking for an apartment, but it’s so hard. The cheap ones go fast, even though they’re located in the worst, most rotten areas. Today I went to the Upper West Side. No luck. I’m thinking of going to a real estate broker. I know, I’ll have to pay a fee, but in the long run it’s probably better. This is more of a hassle than I expected.

Dorrie and Robin, I’ve started listening to Tim Buckley and Mimi and Richard Fariña. Are you into them?

Love,

Diane

Hello, all you Halls,

We’re in our 2nd week of rehearsal. Things are shaping up slowly, but I suppose that’s part of it. Get ready, it’s a really weird show, to put it mildly. I have three verses of a solo in a song called “Black Boys.” I’m just glad I haven’t been fired yet! Acting doesn’t seem to be a concern to the director, Tom O’Horgan. We look like hippies; we sing like hippies; we’re the turned-on youth of today. It doesn’t really appeal to me! I just wish I had more to do in the show.

Anyway, I love you all.

Diane

Hi, Everyone,

Well, I’m in a hit, we opened the 29th. No Woodstock this summer. A real job, and on Broadway.

After the show tonight, Richard Avedon is photographing the whole cast for Vogue magazine. Now, is that astonishing or what? And big stars have come to see it, like Warren Beatty (remember my crush on him from Splendor in the Grass) and Julie Christie, who is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and Liza Minnelli, and Terence Stamp, and Carol Channing. Apparently Hair is the in thing to see. People stand in lines every day to get tickets.

Things are pretty much the same. I’m certainly the same. Will I ever change? I’m still the dumbest person alive. One apparently does not grow out of stupidity. Oh, also I’m on a diet. Obese is an understatement. I’ve gotten carried away with the FOOD LIFE.

Dad, I hope you prepared your friend for Hair and the nudity. Is he coming soon?

Love, Diane

4
BIG YEAR

“Father Mother”

While I was watching fellow tribe members shed their clothes onstage every night, Mom switched from letters to journals. It was 1969. She had gone from a twenty-four-year-old woman feeling the newness of two loves, to an adoring mother who reaped the so-called “rewards” of being a homemaker in the fifties, to an adult who displayed hints of defiance in the sixties.

The process of learning how to explore her own unanswered questions came from the action of moving a pen across paper. How had she found time? Not while preparing the endless tuna casseroles and cheese enchiladas that became leftovers for four lunch boxes five days a week; not at the kitchen counter, with wilting Kellogg’s Corn Flakes sprinkled with wheat germ waiting to be cleared. When was she able to grab a few minutes for herself? Not after Dad was at work or we were in school; not before figuring out the best way to stretch the budget so she could buy the extras everybody always begged for. Did she have free time between the dishes and laundry, and mending our clothes, and renewing her license, and helping Dorrie with her homework? No.

I have free time, time enough to have written this memoir while working on a product line for Bed Bath & Beyond and editing a book for Rizzoli Publications on modern architecture, time to leave home and act in a Larry Kasdan low-budget indie in Park City, Utah.

Even though Dexter, Duke, and I carry on the Hall family tradition of sitting down to dinner every night, our “It takes a village” version of the evening meal is unrecognizable from those days at the kitchen counter on Wright Street. My role as “Father Mother” (coined by Duke) is nothing like Mom’s. I reside at the head of the table. Dexter and Duke flank me on either side. Members of Team Keaton attend, like Sandra Shadic—renamed Sance Underpants by Duke—on some nights, “La La” Lindsay Dwelley on others. Ronen Stromberg comes by too. I love our dinners, but I don’t make them. Debbie Durand does.

As “Father God” (another of Duke’s terms of endearment), I begin with the high points and low points of our collective day. Duke makes a face. I pretend to ignore it and attempt to expand our sense of community spirit by injecting subjects like Heal the Bay’s annual report card on the worst beaches of Southern California. Dexter says, “At least it wasn’t Santa Monica again.” “Right, Dex. Thank God.” On the sidelines, Duke teases Dexter about her interchangeable crushes on boys with names like Max and Matthew and Tyler and Corey and Chris B. and Chris L. Dexter responds by calling Duke an “annoying pest” and ratting him out, saying Duke’s school pants got thrown into the shower after swim practice by him, not by Sawyer, as he claimed. Sandra reminds her to “give your brother a break.” I end it with “Duke Keaton! Sorry, but, guess what? Fun freeze.” Things get better when we begin the chat about Dexter’s high point, her birthday dinner. She wants fried onion rings, chicken nuggets, buttered pasta, the tuxedo cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory, and no GREEN of any kind at all whatsoever. Everyone joins in the cleanup. Dexter wants to use my iPhone. I give it to her reluctantly and begin talking about Elizabeth Edwards’s tragic ending, even quoting a sentence from the New York Times obituary about “the disparity between public image and private reality.” No one responds. Sandra, the fastest draw in the west, has put all the plates in the dishwasher before I can begin to get the milk to the refrigerator.

Mother’s time opened up when I left for New York City and Randy got a job as an usher at the Broadway Movie Theater in Santa Ana. Dorrie and Robin were wrapping up their high school years as Mother sat down and began to explore her thoughts on paper. It took the beginning of an end, on the cusp of the next decade, before Dorothy found her voice.

New Year’s Eve, 1968

I’m so excited for Robin; she got a job at Bullock’s as a demonstrator for cosmetic items. Dorrie is taking a ceramics class in Placentia. Jack and I have two Schwinn bikes we ride every other night to Baskin and Robbins 31 Flavors in Honer Plaza. So much fun. Randy’s writing more than ever. I’m so proud of him. Jack won the best speaker award at Toastmasters. Randy goes too and loves it. Diane’s coming home for a week. She got a break from rehearsals for Woody Allen’s Play It Again, Sam. Apparently she’ll be going to Hollywood for some auditions. She is now a light blond, very thin young woman. The total look is extremely GOOD! Everyone remarks about our beautiful daughters.

I started painting the kitchen. Jack’s almost got the fireplace mantel finished. It makes the whole room look just the way we want it: rustic, warm, and light. I can’t believe it’s all working out so well. I finished my first paid photo assignment today: 20 shots of Judy Weinhart in a book for $35.00. I hate to admit I’m pretty pleased. But I am.

I took a long ride in the industrial part of Santa Ana and had the greatest time looking at old rusty tin cans, wind-blown bottles, pitted rocks, toppled shacks, and torn signs. It was as if I could SEE the silence. Today Jack said that even if I divorced him, he would come home every night…. I loved that because that’s our story; we are infinitely tied to one another.

Thank you, somebody! Everybody. Thank you, Randy, Robin, Dorrie, Diane, and Jack. Thank you, people, nature, animals, Goya, and Kernel, our cats. We have so much. I feel my life is very full of beauty and love. Lets see if 1969 can be even better.

January 30, 1969

Dear Mom,

I moved yesterday; what a job! I wonder what it would be like if I actually had some furniture. Thanks for the box of goodies. I love the great teapot and the photographs. They’re fantastic. There’s no real place to put them except on the windowsill, which compensates for the LOUSY original stove. At least my stereo works. I’ve been playing Nina Simone and Morgana King, my favorite.

The rehearsals are going okay. Woody Allen is cute and, of course, very funny.

I know Dad wanted me to write down all my ideas concerning the money I owe him. Certainly I’m in no position to pay it all back right now. The landlord informed me that I owe him 29 dollars, and the telephone bills will be coming soon. When the play opens I want to take singing and dancing lessons. But tell Dad not to worry because next month I’m going to start to send 50 dollars every month until I pay back the 500 dollars I owe him. In the meantime, here’s my list of my expenses.

1. Rent $98.32. 2. Phone $10.00. 3. Phone service $5.00. 4. Singing lessons $40 a month, I guess. (Ugh.) 5. Dancing lessons $30, about. 6. Food $100 a month (I guess). That’s a total of $283 and 32 cents. It seems like an awful lot.

Love,

Diane

February 6, 1969

Jack and I flew all the way to New York City for the opening night of Play It Again, Sam. Jack Benny—Ed Sullivan—Walter Kerr—George Plimpton—Angela Lansbury—and other stars attended. We met Woody Allen afterwards. Oh my goodness. He was so shy and quiet, not like I expected at all. The play was very funny. Diane looked beautiful onstage—she wore a fall, which made her hair look really thick. She’s on a thing these days, always chewing a big mouthful of Dubble Bubble gum or sucking candy—or eating. I wish I knew how she stays so thin.

Everyone was very kind to us. At Sardi’s we sat at a table for 10 with champagne and cheesecake. We were told that Woody Allen’s new leading lady was his new heart interest too. This gave us a real kick.

February 10, 1969

We’re back home. I’m taking a class at UCI. My goal is to work HARD on writing an article and SELL IT. According to my teacher, if you want to write, write. Maybe I could work on something personal yet universal, like the way the kids are growing up so fast? I don’t know.

Seeing Diane was an experience. I can’t think of how to explain her effect on people. Of course, I’m speaking as I see her and am not without total bias. She is a mystery. She is independent. At times she’s so basic, at others so wise it frightens me that I got so far in this world without the benefit of such knowledge. I miss her.

February 18, 1969

Dear Mom,

It seems like you were just here. How did it go by so fast? Isn’t Woody hilarious? Did you really like the play? I couldn’t exactly tell. Woody does a lot of let’s just say unusual things onstage, things you wouldn’t think a person of his stature would do. Last night, in the middle of a scene he suddenly started impersonating James Earl Jones in The Great White Hope. I tried not to laugh, but it was impossible.

I think I had a date with him. We went to Frankie and Johnnie’s famous steakhouse. Everything was going well until I scraped my fork against the plate and made a normal, I stress normal, cutting noise. It must have driven him nuts, ’cause he yelped out loud. I couldn’t figure out how to cut my steak without making the same mistake, so I stopped eating and started talking about women’s status in the arts, like I know anything about women and the arts. What an idiot. The whole thing was humiliating. I doubt we’ll be having dinner together anytime soon. Today he sent me a little note. I think you’ll relate.

Love,

Diane

From Woody

Beet Head,

Humans are clean slates. There are no qualities indigenous to men or women. True, there is a different biology, but all defining choices in life affect both sexes & a woman, any woman is capable of defining herself with total FREEDOM. Therefore women are anything they choose to be & frequently have chosen & defined themselves greater than men. Don’t be fooled by THE ARTS! They’re no big deal; certainly no excuse for people acting like jerks & by that I mean, so what if up till now there were very few women artists. There may have been women far deeper than, say, Mozart or Da Vinci but contributing their genius in a different socially circumscribed context. Note how I switched from pen to pencil at this moment because in Lelouch’s film, A MAN & A WOMAN, he switches from color to black & White—So I underline my point using the same symbolism—Very clever? OK, then, very stupid.