Cybill Disobedience Part 4

ORSON WELLES CAME TO COPA DE ORO FOR DINNER one night and stayed two years, intermittently with an elegant actress of Hungarian and Croatian descent named Oya Kodar, who had perfectly formed eyebrows and spoke in a thick, high voice, like the way a child would imitate a snooty librarian. She seemed too remote and exotic to be a pal, but we shared the same sort of alliance with bossy, self-involved men. Once, when the four of us were eating in a Paris restaurant,rson and Peter were completely excluding us from the conversation, so we set our menus on fire with the candle on the table. Fortunately we got their attention before burning the restaurant to the ground. Orson was always broke--despite the accolades, his films weren't profitable, and for years he had put all his money into his work. He never slept through the night, but he napped off and on around the clock, and I was instructed not to knock on the door of his room for any reason, day or night. Once he summoned me inside where he was playing with the cable TV box, channel-surfing by punching at a long row of numbered b.u.t.tons. one night and stayed two years, intermittently with an elegant actress of Hungarian and Croatian descent named Oya Kodar, who had perfectly formed eyebrows and spoke in a thick, high voice, like the way a child would imitate a snooty librarian. She seemed too remote and exotic to be a pal, but we shared the same sort of alliance with bossy, self-involved men. Once, when the four of us were eating in a Paris restaurant,rson and Peter were completely excluding us from the conversation, so we set our menus on fire with the candle on the table. Fortunately we got their attention before burning the restaurant to the ground. Orson was always broke--despite the accolades, his films weren't profitable, and for years he had put all his money into his work. He never slept through the night, but he napped off and on around the clock, and I was instructed not to knock on the door of his room for any reason, day or night. Once he summoned me inside where he was playing with the cable TV box, channel-surfing by punching at a long row of numbered b.u.t.tons.

"Come and look at this," he said, his heroic voice heavy with excitement. "It's the most brilliant show on television." The program that had elicited such praise was Sesame Street Sesame Street. His second favorite was Kojak Kojak. 'The most frequent noises emanating from his room were the gurgles of Big Bird and Telly Savalas saying "Who loves ya, baby?" But he also encouraged me to study opera, which I did for three years. Working with a voice coach, a drama coach, and a language coach, on top of having a movie career, nearly did me in, and Orson finally told me, "You have to choose or you're going to have a nervous breakdown. Opera or film." One of the reasons I chose the latter was that when I sang opera, people either stared as if they were watching Mount St. Helen erupt, or just laughed.

It was Orson too who helped me with the talk show. circuit, where I kept making wrongheaded attempts to be clever. It took me a long time to figure out that the host must score with the first big laugh at my expense, that I was supposed to be smart and cute and funny, but not smarter, not cuter, and certainly not funnier than Johnny/Jay/Dave/Mike/Merv. "All you have to do," Orson instructed, "is ignore the audience and have a conversation with the guy behind the desk." Carson could really bring out the risque in me: on one occasion, he put on a pair of horns, got down on his hands and knees, and let me la.s.so him. Another time he knocked a cup of coffee over on his desk, and I said, "If you'd spilled it in your lap, I could have cleaned it up." On Leno I used my hands to approximate the position of b.r.e.a.s.t.s that are not surgically lifted. (They're so much more versatile with age--you can have them up, you can have them down, side to side, round and round, or you can swing them over your shoulder like a continental soldier.) Letterman posed a different challenge. "Don't hug Dave too hard," warned his stage manager right before I was announced. (Same thing happened when Tony Bennett came on the Cybill Cybill show. Perhaps I have a reputation as a particularly effusive hugger?) Once when I was scheduled for his show but wasn't traveling directly to New York, I had the suit I planned to wear sent ahead. Dave hung it on the set, poking fun at it every night for a week as a kind of countdown before my appearance. When I heard about the stunt, I decided I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd wear that outfit and instead came out wrapped in a bath towel. Years later, during another appearance on his show, Dave did pay up on a $100 bet that I couldn't lob a football into a canister after he'd missed it nine times. When we went down to the street with the former Super Bowl champ Joe Montana to see who could throw the ball through the window of a pa.s.sing taxicab, I became Diana of the hunt. All those years of tossing a ball with my father paid off, and Dave was gracious in defeat, especially after I accidentally stomped his foot. show. Perhaps I have a reputation as a particularly effusive hugger?) Once when I was scheduled for his show but wasn't traveling directly to New York, I had the suit I planned to wear sent ahead. Dave hung it on the set, poking fun at it every night for a week as a kind of countdown before my appearance. When I heard about the stunt, I decided I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd wear that outfit and instead came out wrapped in a bath towel. Years later, during another appearance on his show, Dave did pay up on a $100 bet that I couldn't lob a football into a canister after he'd missed it nine times. When we went down to the street with the former Super Bowl champ Joe Montana to see who could throw the ball through the window of a pa.s.sing taxicab, I became Diana of the hunt. All those years of tossing a ball with my father paid off, and Dave was gracious in defeat, especially after I accidentally stomped his foot.

Since Peter worked more than either of us, Orson and I were often left in each other's company. One day we were drinking wine, sitting in the living room under a painting of Native American dancing. "You know," said Orson, looking up at the inspirational images, "there was a time when G.o.d was a man." I told him I knew about Cybele from the Sistine Chapel, and he suggested I read The Greek Myths The Greek Myths by Robert Graves, a kind of dictionary of religious stories throughout history. Reading that book cover to cover intensified my spiritual quest to learn more about the so-called Great G.o.ddess. by Robert Graves, a kind of dictionary of religious stories throughout history. Reading that book cover to cover intensified my spiritual quest to learn more about the so-called Great G.o.ddess.

Orson ate my leftovers off the plate in four-star restaurants, especially if he had insisted on my ordering something strange and previously unknown to me such as tripe (I had no idea it was intestinal matter) or whitebait (I didn't know the fish would come complete with heads and bones, curled into a position that looked like jumping). At home he would throw fits if we ran out of his favorite food.

"WHO ATE THE LAST FUDGSICLE?" Orson would bellow. Everyone knew that he'd eaten it, but we were too polite to say so. "That's just b.a.l.l.s," he'd yell in a voice that sounded like G.o.d chastising Eve for eating that apple. "Everything you know is b.a.l.l.s," he'd say. Then he'd make an omelette as an act of contrition, standing barefoot by the stove in a voluminous black kimono. One day in the laundry room I came across a pair of silk boxer shorts, three feet wide and custom-made on Savile Row, draped over the washing machine like the Shroud of Turin. He taught me how to cut and smoke fat, foot-long Monte Cristo A's, obtained from Cuba through European connections, holding the smoke in my mouth without inhaling and tossing out the last half, which he considered slightly bitter.

One afternoon I smelled smoke in the house and followed the smell to Orson's room, right below mine. Standing outside the door, I tapped timidly and called to him.

"Is everything all right?" I asked.

"I'm fine," he roared. "It's all taken care of. Go away."

I didn't know what "it" was until later. Orson had shoved a still-smoldering cigar into the pocket of a robe, which he dropped on a mat when he got in the shower. The cloth caught fire and burned into the rug before he realized the danger. The next day, as an apology, I received The Victor The Victor Book of Book of the Opera, the Opera, which he had inscribed with a play on an old nursery rhyme: "Ladybug, ladybug, go away home, your house is on fire and your houseguest, a hibernating bear, is too." The ill.u.s.tration was of my house leaping with flames, the smoke smudged, he said, with his own spit. which he had inscribed with a play on an old nursery rhyme: "Ladybug, ladybug, go away home, your house is on fire and your houseguest, a hibernating bear, is too." The ill.u.s.tration was of my house leaping with flames, the smoke smudged, he said, with his own spit.

In August of 1972, Peter and I were invited to meet Richard Nixon at a fund-raiser in San Clemente for the president's Hollywood supporters. Our disinclination toward Republican politics paled in comparison to our annoyance that The Last Picture Show The Last Picture Show was deemed too racy to be screened at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but n.o.body turns down an invitation to meet the president, even if it was Nixon. I ransacked my closet and came up with a full-length gown by Jean Patou that was as close to an American flag as a dress could be-a red-and-white-striped skirt with a blue bodice. The invitation had read, "Less than c.o.c.ktail dress," but this was the president of the United States (even if it was Nixon). When we stopped to ask directions at a Sh.e.l.l station, the attendant simply pointed to the sky and the huge khaki green helicopters circling above an estate surrounded by chain-link fence. Granted admission, we felt like the Mel Brooks joke about going to a party where everyone is a tuxedo and you're a brown shoe. There were Clint Eastwood, Billy Graham, Henry Kissinger with Jill St. John, Debbie Reynolds, Glen Campbell, Charlton Heston, and Jim Brown. Peter introduced me to John Wayne, who mentioned his admiration for was deemed too racy to be screened at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but n.o.body turns down an invitation to meet the president, even if it was Nixon. I ransacked my closet and came up with a full-length gown by Jean Patou that was as close to an American flag as a dress could be-a red-and-white-striped skirt with a blue bodice. The invitation had read, "Less than c.o.c.ktail dress," but this was the president of the United States (even if it was Nixon). When we stopped to ask directions at a Sh.e.l.l station, the attendant simply pointed to the sky and the huge khaki green helicopters circling above an estate surrounded by chain-link fence. Granted admission, we felt like the Mel Brooks joke about going to a party where everyone is a tuxedo and you're a brown shoe. There were Clint Eastwood, Billy Graham, Henry Kissinger with Jill St. John, Debbie Reynolds, Glen Campbell, Charlton Heston, and Jim Brown. Peter introduced me to John Wayne, who mentioned his admiration for The Last Picture Show. The Last Picture Show. "But I'll tell ya the truth," he said in his signature drawl, "I was a little embarra.s.sed. I mean, my wife was there." Nixon gave a stuffy little speech paying homage to Wayne. "Whenever we want to run a pnded by Camp David," he said, "I always say, 'Let's run a John Wayne picture.'" Wayne, who had a drink in his hand, probably not his first, raised his gla.s.s and said, "Keep those coming'." "But I'll tell ya the truth," he said in his signature drawl, "I was a little embarra.s.sed. I mean, my wife was there." Nixon gave a stuffy little speech paying homage to Wayne. "Whenever we want to run a pnded by Camp David," he said, "I always say, 'Let's run a John Wayne picture.'" Wayne, who had a drink in his hand, probably not his first, raised his gla.s.s and said, "Keep those coming'."

An aide-de-camp informed us that the men should precede the women in the reception line on the gra.s.s, where the president was standing. When we came face-to-face with Nixon, I smiled and said, "I wore this dress especially for you, Mr. President."

"And you look lovely, my dear," he said. Then, directed at Peter, "You ought to put her in a picture."

"I did," Peter said. "It's one you haven't seen."

Nixon looked perplexed. "What's the name of that production?'' he asked with great formality.

"The Last Picture Show," said Peter. said Peter.

Musing over the t.i.tle, Nixon said, "That's a black and white production, isn't it, the one that takes place in Texas?''

"That's right," Peter said, genuinely surprised.

"I saw that," said Nixon. "That's a remarkable picture." Then he turned to me and, touching my arm in a kindly manner, said, "And what part did you play, my, dear?"

Nearly stuttering, I finally got out the word "Jacy." Peter, who was enjoying my discomfiture way too much, added, "She's the one who stripped on the diving board."

Nixon and I both turned crimson. His hand kept patting my arm lightly while still maintaining eye contact with Peter as he said, "Well, everyone gave a remarkable performance in that film. And of course, I remember you very well now, my dear."

Not long after, we were invited to visit the legendary director Jean Renoir, then in his eighties and living in Beverly Hills. Jean had repeated his father's predilection for angering his compatriots: the French threw rotten vegetables at the Impressionist exhibit where they first saw Auguste Renoir's paintings, and years later Jean Renoir's film La Regle du Jeu (The La Regle du Jeu (The Rules of the Game) would be so severely panned that he would say he was either going to quit making films or leave France. Rules of the Game) would be so severely panned that he would say he was either going to quit making films or leave France.

When we first entered his home, the only thing I could see was a luminous portrait of a young man in the woods holding a rifle (a painting that now hangs in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art). So distracted was I by this glorious work of art that I didn't even see Renoir himself until I heard a strange motorized sound and saw a sweet-looking old man being raised up to a standing position by an automated chair. He took a faltering step toward me, and I saw the bluest of eyes in a pale crinkly face, right out of the painting. His wife, Dido, who looked to be about thirty years younger, served white wine in short, very cold sterling silver cups that formed refreshing droplets of condensation, delightful in the heat of the summer day. We mentioned our visit to San Clemente, but naturally the talk turned to filmmaking. We were having an animated conversation with Dido, who had served as her husband's script supervisor, about the unfortunate necessity of dubbing. Suddenly the great man looked agitated, his pale face flushed, and he started rising out of his chair again. "I have the answer to Richard Nixon," he said excitedly. "Nixon is dubbed! And in a civilized time, like the thirteenth century, men would have been burned at the stake for less!"

IT IS FACINATING TO WATCH, ALTHOUGH I COULD hardly do so without pa.s.sionate self-interest, as a budding career becomes a meteor. I'm talking about Peter here, not myself. Equally fascinating is the chronicle of the roads not taken. (Orson said, "Your career is made more by what you don't do than by what you do.") Before hardly do so without pa.s.sionate self-interest, as a budding career becomes a meteor. I'm talking about Peter here, not myself. Equally fascinating is the chronicle of the roads not taken. (Orson said, "Your career is made more by what you don't do than by what you do.") Before The Last Picture Show The Last Picture Show had even opened, it was enerating an expectant buzz in the industry, and Peter got a call from Robert Evans, then head of production at Paramount, which had just bought a book about the Mafia by Mario Puzo. Peter had no interest in directing a film about organized crime and its peculiar ethos of had even opened, it was enerating an expectant buzz in the industry, and Peter got a call from Robert Evans, then head of production at Paramount, which had just bought a book about the Mafia by Mario Puzo. Peter had no interest in directing a film about organized crime and its peculiar ethos of la famiglia la famiglia. Ten years later, Evans was still chastising him for bad career choices.

"h.e.l.l, you even turned down The G.o.dfather," said Evans.

"No, I didn't," said Peter.

"Yeah, you did," said Evans, recounting their conversation. But Peter was able to do some reciprocal reproaching because Evans's bad judgment had cost him his marriage. He had tried to recruit Peter once again, this time to direct The Getaway The Getaway with Steve McQueen. Ali MacGraw, then Evans's wife, was to costar, but the part was written for a barefoot southern girl, a prototype of which just happened to be living with Peter. "Ali MacGraw can't play this," he insisted to Evans. "Isn't she from Bennington, Vermont?" McQueen didn't want me either (it's much harder for the leading man to make a move on the leading lady if she's the director's babe, since the director is omnipresent). Disagreeing with the casting, Peter turned down the a.s.signment. MacGraw got the part, and McQueen got MacGraw. with Steve McQueen. Ali MacGraw, then Evans's wife, was to costar, but the part was written for a barefoot southern girl, a prototype of which just happened to be living with Peter. "Ali MacGraw can't play this," he insisted to Evans. "Isn't she from Bennington, Vermont?" McQueen didn't want me either (it's much harder for the leading man to make a move on the leading lady if she's the director's babe, since the director is omnipresent). Disagreeing with the casting, Peter turned down the a.s.signment. MacGraw got the part, and McQueen got MacGraw.

When Evans began producing his own films, he asked Peter to direct a detective story in the Raymond Chandler tradition starring Jack Nicholson, with whom Peter had a friendly personal rivalry. (I'd made one date with Jack to spite Peter for going to a film expo with his ex-wife, which I took as a sign to the world that we didn't really exist as a couple. When Peter called and apologized, I canceled the date. Jack has never spoken to me since, except for "Hi" at a party.) Again Peter wanted to cast me in the femme fatale role opposite Nicholson, but Evans declared me too young. He wanted Faye Dunaway, so Peter said no to Chinatown. Chinatown.

I WAS BUSY MAKING MY OWN MISTAKES. THERE ARE whole chapters of my life that can be written with the postscript, "And the part went to..." The exalted director George Cukor had been acidly flattering about whole chapters of my life that can be written with the postscript, "And the part went to..." The exalted director George Cukor had been acidly flattering about The Last Picture Show- The Last Picture Show--he'd told Peter, "You're going to put us old-timers out of work." Cukor was the undisputed king of comedy for brainy, beautiful women, and I had practically memorized his oeuvre--Jean Harlow in Dinner at Eight, Dinner at Eight, Katharine Hepburn in Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story, The Philadelphia Story, Judy Holiday in Judy Holiday in Born Yesterday. Born Yesterday. I was honored even to get an audition with him. But when I tried out for a small part in I was honored even to get an audition with him. But when I tried out for a small part in Travels with My Aunt, Travels with My Aunt, he said, "That was a really bad reading. Why don't you take it home and study it? You can come back and try again tomorrow." Peter and I spent two or three hours on it, and the next day I went to Cukor's office for another reading. I thought I didn't do half badly considering that I hadn't slept all night, visions of the bungled lines prancing before my eyes. But Cukor put down the script, looked at me over horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and said, "I'm going to give you some good advice, and if you have any sense, you'll take it. You have no comedic talent. Never try it again." (The part went to... Cindy Williams, who became the latter half of he said, "That was a really bad reading. Why don't you take it home and study it? You can come back and try again tomorrow." Peter and I spent two or three hours on it, and the next day I went to Cukor's office for another reading. I thought I didn't do half badly considering that I hadn't slept all night, visions of the bungled lines prancing before my eyes. But Cukor put down the script, looked at me over horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and said, "I'm going to give you some good advice, and if you have any sense, you'll take it. You have no comedic talent. Never try it again." (The part went to... Cindy Williams, who became the latter half of Laverne and Shirley, Laverne and Shirley, and I developed an irrational hostility for her from which I never recovered.) A celebrated director had gone out of his way to be brutally discouraging, and I whimpered, worried, agonized, and almost believed him. But even though I've given up lots of times in my life, I usually only allow myself a week or two of sulk. Like the little engine that could, I get back on track. Ultimately no public or private humiliation has ever stopped me. and I developed an irrational hostility for her from which I never recovered.) A celebrated director had gone out of his way to be brutally discouraging, and I whimpered, worried, agonized, and almost believed him. But even though I've given up lots of times in my life, I usually only allow myself a week or two of sulk. Like the little engine that could, I get back on track. Ultimately no public or private humiliation has ever stopped me.

Orson Welles had given me the novella Daisy Miller, Daisy Miller, about a rich, spoiled, brash but naive young woman frm Schenectady, New York, trying to infiltrate nineteenth-century European society. "Henry James wrote this for you," he said, slipping me a slim volume bound in faded red linen. "You act wonderfully on camera just like Daisy, but you overact in real life. And either Peter or I should direct it for you." Peter got the job, and he filmed the book almost verbatim--there were perhaps three words in the dialogue that James didn't write. Daisy chatters on, and on, and on, about her mother's dyspepsia, about her nettlesome little brother, about strangers met in railroad carriages. Her manner of conversation and free spirit are judged harshly--one character says of her, "I don't think she is capable of thought at all." Since people often felt the same of me, it seemed perfect typecasting. In 1972 I was doing essentially what Daisy did in 1865: pushing the limits of polite society and ruining her own reputation. about a rich, spoiled, brash but naive young woman frm Schenectady, New York, trying to infiltrate nineteenth-century European society. "Henry James wrote this for you," he said, slipping me a slim volume bound in faded red linen. "You act wonderfully on camera just like Daisy, but you overact in real life. And either Peter or I should direct it for you." Peter got the job, and he filmed the book almost verbatim--there were perhaps three words in the dialogue that James didn't write. Daisy chatters on, and on, and on, about her mother's dyspepsia, about her nettlesome little brother, about strangers met in railroad carriages. Her manner of conversation and free spirit are judged harshly--one character says of her, "I don't think she is capable of thought at all." Since people often felt the same of me, it seemed perfect typecasting. In 1972 I was doing essentially what Daisy did in 1865: pushing the limits of polite society and ruining her own reputation.

Cloris Leachman gave one of her extraordinarily compelling performances as Daisy's mother--permissive, whining, perpetually fl.u.s.tered--and Larry McMurtry's son James (in his first acting job) was the bratty little brother who drones on like a fly that won't be swatted away. The story is told completely from the point of view of Fredric Forsyth Winterbourne, the achingly correct young man who is infatuated with her but horrified by her defiance of curfews and convention. Peter had spoken to Jeff Bridges about casting Barry Brown (they had worked together in Bad Company), but no one realized that he was in the last stages of an addiction that would cause him to take his life just a few years later. He was glum and withdrawn, and his breakfast of champions consisted of beer, coffee, and Valium, a pattern that couldn't help but affect the shooting schedule. Twilight is frustratingly evanescent for a film-maker--there are endless hours of preparation for a small window of opportunity--and Barry once staggered onto the set so drunk that we couldn't shoot the scene before we lost the lovely light. Since he was in practically every scene, replacing him would have necessitated trashing all the film that had been shot and starting from scratch. "If he reaches for another drink," Peter yelled to an a.s.sistant, "break his f.u.c.king arm or I'll shoot him."

As the filming dragged on into the heat of tourist-clogged Rome in August, Peter and I both became rather brooding and testy. Daisy Miller Daisy Miller necessitated meticulous period details and locations in Italy evocative of the society that wealthy Americans wanted to invade, but it was to be Peter's first movie without Polly as set designer. The wardrobe was made by Tirelli of Rome, the penultimate movie costumer, and the only liberty taken with historical authenticity at the suggestion of costume designer John Furness, was to move the time forward by five years so the women didn't have to wear such huge, exaggerated bustles. Fittings took eight hours, and I developed chronic back pain from the tight corsets of the period, which stretched all the way from the bust to the hip, creating a perpetual swayback. There were times when I had to stop and be unlaced or reach for the smelling salts to keep from pa.s.sing out. necessitated meticulous period details and locations in Italy evocative of the society that wealthy Americans wanted to invade, but it was to be Peter's first movie without Polly as set designer. The wardrobe was made by Tirelli of Rome, the penultimate movie costumer, and the only liberty taken with historical authenticity at the suggestion of costume designer John Furness, was to move the time forward by five years so the women didn't have to wear such huge, exaggerated bustles. Fittings took eight hours, and I developed chronic back pain from the tight corsets of the period, which stretched all the way from the bust to the hip, creating a perpetual swayback. There were times when I had to stop and be unlaced or reach for the smelling salts to keep from pa.s.sing out.

One day I fell asleep in my dressing room and showed up half an hour past my call. "You will never be late again," Peter screamed. "I don't care how big a star you become. Time is money in this business. It's not only expensive, but it's insulting to the rest of the cast and crew. Marilyn Monroe was fired from her last picture for being late." His tirade made an impression. In that scene, my eyes are puffy from crying, and I played the scene with exactly the right pervasive sadness. (Maybe he did it on purpose. You know how these amateur directors are.) Despite the fact that this movie was a dream opportunity for us, Peter and I weren't having a lot of fun together, on or ofset. He was exhausted, often not feeling well, and he didn't want to leave the hotel. I wanted a playmate to make a midnight gelato run to the Piazza Navona. I wanted to make weekend excursions to cool Tuscan villages. I wanted to make love in Roman ruins. As always, I was better at acting out than talking out.

The perfect accomplice for hooky was a deputy producer my own age who had gotten his start working on Peter's movies as a gofer (go for coffee, go for errands...). Our friendship began during The Last Picture Show, The Last Picture Show, and we had spent afternoons by the pool of our Texas motel, taking turns bouncing on the diving board and pretending to jump into the freezing water fully clothed. We shared a love of music and a childhood informed by alcohol: his father was a jazz guitarist who went off the wagon at John Ford's wake and died of a heart attack. The Producer had thinning brown hair, which never mattered to me (my first erotic fantasies were about Yul Brenner), and still had the carefree demeanor of a Southern California surfer: athletic and game for anything. We quickly became buddies, both of us pretending not to notice the powerful attraction because it was beyond inappropriate. and we had spent afternoons by the pool of our Texas motel, taking turns bouncing on the diving board and pretending to jump into the freezing water fully clothed. We shared a love of music and a childhood informed by alcohol: his father was a jazz guitarist who went off the wagon at John Ford's wake and died of a heart attack. The Producer had thinning brown hair, which never mattered to me (my first erotic fantasies were about Yul Brenner), and still had the carefree demeanor of a Southern California surfer: athletic and game for anything. We quickly became buddies, both of us pretending not to notice the powerful attraction because it was beyond inappropriate.

I had to go to New York to crown the new Model of the Year, and since Peter couldn't leave, he asked The Producer to accompany me, oblivious to any potential threat. We were making a quick turnaround, Rome to New York and back to Rome in less than twenty-four hours, so Charles Bluhdorn, who ran Gulf & Western, the parent company of Paramount, got his friend Edgar Bronfman, head of Seagram's, to lend us his private Gulfstream II. The jet was a libertine playground, all s.h.a.g carpet and free-flowing champagne. We managed to behave on the flight west, but there was no way these two steam engines on the same track were not going to collide, about ten seconds after checking into the Waldorf-Astoria. When I had to go off to the pageant, I could barely walk.

I sent daisies, for obvious reasons, to the Producer's room, reminding him of our pact: That was great, and that was all. We're not going to do this again That was great, and that was all. We're not going to do this again. However... when the heating system of the Gulfstream sputtered and failed on our return flight, we rationalized that mile-high s.e.x would be the most efficient way to keep each other nice and warm. Back in Rome, we had to cool way down, trying not to touch or even to look at each other for fear of being discovered. We would not be lovers again until the filming was over. But we were both s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the boss, and I found the deceit, the subterfuge, and the recklessness thrilling. The blend of s.e.x and lies was comfortable and familiar territory for me. Betrayal? Not in my vocabulary.

The budget for Daisy Miller Daisy Miller was just over $2 million, a paltry sum considering the overseas locations and period costumes. Peter was proud of the work but doubtful of the box-office potential. "It doesn't feel like an audience picture," he'd say over the dailies. His mood was not enhanced when he screened the rough print for Paramount executives. was just over $2 million, a paltry sum considering the overseas locations and period costumes. Peter was proud of the work but doubtful of the box-office potential. "It doesn't feel like an audience picture," he'd say over the dailies. His mood was not enhanced when he screened the rough print for Paramount executives.

"It's okay," said Frank Yablans, the chief of production, with a shrug and little emotion.

"'Okay'?" Peter repeated, waiting for something more affirmative.

"What do you want from me?" said Yablans. "You're Babe Ruth, and you just bunted."

When the film came out in the spring of 1972, Newsweek Newsweek raved and the raved and the New York Times New York Times called it "a triumph for all concerned." We were invited to screen called it "a triumph for all concerned." We were invited to screen Daisy Miller Daisy Miller at the Harvard Hasty Pudding Club. (We later found out that the student who carried our bags was Joel Silver, who would produce all the at the Harvard Hasty Pudding Club. (We later found out that the student who carried our bags was Joel Silver, who would produce all the Die Hard Die Hard movies.) But the movie critic Rex Reed recommended, "Go back to your blue jeans, Cybill." That was almost laudatory compared to some reviews. At the start of production, Peter had been quoted in movies.) But the movie critic Rex Reed recommended, "Go back to your blue jeans, Cybill." That was almost laudatory compared to some reviews. At the start of production, Peter had been quoted in Time Time saying, "Ithought that if Henry James had gone to all the trouble to write a good part for Cybill, I should shoot it." The Time film critic didn't agree: "Among all the flaws in this movie--the numbing literalness, the flagrant absence of subtlety--nothing is quite so wrong as Cybill Shepherd. Bogdanovich installed her in the lead as if she were some sort of electrical appliance being plugged into an outlet." I understand that reviewer is dead now. I had nothing to do with it. saying, "Ithought that if Henry James had gone to all the trouble to write a good part for Cybill, I should shoot it." The Time film critic didn't agree: "Among all the flaws in this movie--the numbing literalness, the flagrant absence of subtlety--nothing is quite so wrong as Cybill Shepherd. Bogdanovich installed her in the lead as if she were some sort of electrical appliance being plugged into an outlet." I understand that reviewer is dead now. I had nothing to do with it.

Daisy Miller was a box-office bomb, but it was our relationship, not the film, that most critics seemed eager to review. I believe that good reviews can be more dangerous than bad ones because it's easier to believe them and stop striving. But there's no way that actors don't feel bad from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Peter and I didn't have children, so our movies were our babies, and we were wounded by the reproach. We consoled each other by reading aloud from an anthology called was a box-office bomb, but it was our relationship, not the film, that most critics seemed eager to review. I believe that good reviews can be more dangerous than bad ones because it's easier to believe them and stop striving. But there's no way that actors don't feel bad from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Peter and I didn't have children, so our movies were our babies, and we were wounded by the reproach. We consoled each other by reading aloud from an anthology called Lexicon of Musical Invective Lexicon of Musical Invective, which detailed the critical a.s.saults upon great composers. ("An American in Paris is nauseous claptrap, so dull, patchy, thin, vulgar, long-winded and inane, that the average movie audience would be bored by it." "Beethoven's Second Symphony is a cra.s.s monster, a hideously rising wounded dragon that refuses to expire, and though bleeding in the Finale, furiously beats about with its tail erect.") We flaunted our solidarity, brazenly leaving a press junket to make love in the next room. We were the first live-in lovers on the cover of a new magazine called is nauseous claptrap, so dull, patchy, thin, vulgar, long-winded and inane, that the average movie audience would be bored by it." "Beethoven's Second Symphony is a cra.s.s monster, a hideously rising wounded dragon that refuses to expire, and though bleeding in the Finale, furiously beats about with its tail erect.") We flaunted our solidarity, brazenly leaving a press junket to make love in the next room. We were the first live-in lovers on the cover of a new magazine called People People, and on the inside pages we bragged insufferably about how living together was s.e.xier than being married. We were arrogant and smug, the message being: we're Cybill and Peter, and you're not. He was constantly given credit for my career, as if he were Pygmalion sculpting Galatea, or Svengali controlling Trilby's singing through hypnotic powers. (I jokingly called him "Sven," but he wasn't allowed to call me "Trilby.") "Stop telling people you're so in love and so happy," Cary Grant warned Peter.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because people are not in love and not happy," said Grant.

"I thought all the world loves a lover," said Peter.

"Don't kid yourself," said Grant.

It was around this time that I got a rea.s.suring call from Cary. "Now listen, Cybill, you're very intelligent and I can see they're offering you really dumb parts, but don't get discouraged. If I was still acting, you're the kind of girl I'd like to work with. Whatever you do, don't get depressed and start eating."

Peter had an aura of superiority about him and could be rude. When people didn't understand something he considered basic, he would act as if they belonged in a day care center. Suddenly wealthier than he'd ever imagined, he changed the way he dressed, favoring bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned blazers and ascots, and drove a two-toned Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce with red leather upholstery. I bought him a quarter horse and a hand-tooled Mexican saddle with his initials on a silver horn; he bought me an Appaloosa jumper and a Hermes saddle; both arrived, draped with red ribbon, outside our house in a trailer on Christmas morning. We were disgusting.

However I might be deceiving him in private, I carried professional allegiance to extremes. When I was asked to present the 1972 Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor, I thought I'd have a little fun. "The nominees are John Houseman for Paper Moon- Paper Moon--I mean The Paper Chase The Paper Chase--and Randy Quaid for The Last Picture Show- The Last Picture Show--I mean The Last Detail The Last Detail." I was astonished when I heard two weak chuckles and the dead silence of thousands. Billy Wilder wrote in Variety, "Hollywood is now united in its hatred of Peter Bogdanovich and Cybill Shepherd."

I'VE ALWAYS BEEN INSPIRED BY A LINE FROM GOETHE: "Whatever you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." With great qualms, I decided to invade another medium and record an alb.u.m of standards called Cybill Does It to Cole Porter Cybill Does It to Cole Porter. Peter agreed to produce the alb.u.m, and his a.s.sistant, once again, was The Producer, who was conveniently living in an apartment less than a mile from our house. Peter had the idea to send advance ca.s.settes to Orson Welles, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire, and Frank Sinatra, asking for blurbs to be quoted on the jacket cover. The first three sent glowing, appreciative comments, and I was hoping for the same from Sinatra. I'd met him once after a performance at Caesar's Palace.

"I love you," I gushed.

He fixed his cerulean eyes on me. "I love you too, baby," he said.

But he sent a telegram after listening to the alb.u.m: "Marvelous what some guys will do for a broad!" Peter tried to convince me we were just one typo short of a rave, that a misplaced exclamation point would have made the review read, "Marvelous! What some guys will do for a broad."

It was on the basis of this alb.u.m that Peter convinced 20th Century-Fox to green-light our next collaboration, an original musical comedy called At Long Last Love At Long Last Love that he wrote using Cole Porter songs, about a madcap but impoverished heiress who loves a millionaire playboy who loves a Broadway star who loves an Italian roue. In movie musicals, actors usually record the vocals in a studio long before the film is shot and then lip-sync to those tracks when filming, so the sound of their voices is perfected with millions of dollars of studio enhancement. Audiences are accustomed to hearing this kind of technical quality, which can't be duplicated in live performance. But Peter was more interested in spontaneity than perfection. Inspired by the 1930s Lubitsch musicals, when it was impossible to record voice and orchestra separately, he loved the subtle changes in tempo afforded by musicians following the actors. He asked the sound department at Fox to invent a process by which he could record the actors' voices live while we heard a pianist on the set through tiny receivers in our ears, the antennae wired through our hair. One night when we were filming in downtown L.A. the police got suspicious of this equipment and threatened to arrest Peter for unlawful broadcasting. that he wrote using Cole Porter songs, about a madcap but impoverished heiress who loves a millionaire playboy who loves a Broadway star who loves an Italian roue. In movie musicals, actors usually record the vocals in a studio long before the film is shot and then lip-sync to those tracks when filming, so the sound of their voices is perfected with millions of dollars of studio enhancement. Audiences are accustomed to hearing this kind of technical quality, which can't be duplicated in live performance. But Peter was more interested in spontaneity than perfection. Inspired by the 1930s Lubitsch musicals, when it was impossible to record voice and orchestra separately, he loved the subtle changes in tempo afforded by musicians following the actors. He asked the sound department at Fox to invent a process by which he could record the actors' voices live while we heard a pianist on the set through tiny receivers in our ears, the antennae wired through our hair. One night when we were filming in downtown L.A. the police got suspicious of this equipment and threatened to arrest Peter for unlawful broadcasting.

Today many people actually love At Long Last Love At Long Last Love--presumably it inspired Woody Allen to do a musical called Everyone Says I Love You Everyone Says I Love You. But when it came out, it was almost universally ravaged. We had four weeks of rehearsal (Fred and Ginger had six), and the stress took its toll: two or three times a week, Burt Reynolds would start hyperventilating and had to breathe into a paper bag. The last day of shooting I slammed three fingers in various doors (I still have a scar in my thumbnail where a studio nurse punctured it with the end of a paper clip that had been held in a flame). I bounced bralessly through the movie in 1930s-style silk-satin gowns that wrinkled so badly, I couldn't sit down, so I spent the long shooting days propped up against an old-fashioned "leaning board."

Considering that this frothy cinematic c.o.c.ktail was released in 1975, just as the country was reeling from a post-Watergate malaise combined with a serious recession, the timing could not have been worse. Though defending it in public, Peter and I privately referred to At Long Last Love At Long Last Love as our debacle. There was a tremendous pressure from the studio to get the movie out in a hurry, and Peter felt he was talked into some bad editing choices, which he would spend $60,000 of his own money to correct. The film was one of the last to be shown before Radio City Music Hall closed its doors for years, prompting Orson Welles to chastise us, "You shut down the f.u.c.king Rockettes!" The film community was thrilled; they'd been waiting for us to fail. The movie critic Judith Crist called Peter before the picture was released and asked, "How is it?" as our debacle. There was a tremendous pressure from the studio to get the movie out in a hurry, and Peter felt he was talked into some bad editing choices, which he would spend $60,000 of his own money to correct. The film was one of the last to be shown before Radio City Music Hall closed its doors for years, prompting Orson Welles to chastise us, "You shut down the f.u.c.king Rockettes!" The film community was thrilled; they'd been waiting for us to fail. The movie critic Judith Crist called Peter before the picture was released and asked, "How is it?"

"Pretty good," said Peter.

"It better be," she said. "They're waiting for you with their knives out." When Gene Shalit reviewed the film on the Today Today show, said, "In this movie Cybill Shepherd appears as if she cannot walk or talk, much less sing." Then he held up a sign that read BOMB and ended with "produced, written, directed, and ruined by Peter Bogdanovich." Vincent Canby at the New York Times, who'd had such kind words about me in show, said, "In this movie Cybill Shepherd appears as if she cannot walk or talk, much less sing." Then he held up a sign that read BOMB and ended with "produced, written, directed, and ruined by Peter Bogdanovich." Vincent Canby at the New York Times, who'd had such kind words about me in Daisy Miller Daisy Miller, wrote that "casting Cybil [sic] Shepherd in a musical comedy is like entering a horse in a cat show." Another critic, again reviewing the relationship. called Peter "an eager foil for Cybill Shepherd, his well-publicized but untalented girlfriend." I was crushed, humiliated, asking myself: Is it possible I am talentless Is it possible I am talentless? There's an expression that goes, "If three people tell you you're dead, lie down already." But I kept thinking: It's not how many times you get knocked down but how many times you get back up. It's not how many times you get knocked down but how many times you get back up.

To that end, I met with the producer David Merrick and the director Jack Clayton, determined to have them cast me as another Daisy, opposite Robert Redford in The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby. But when they asked for a screen test, I haughtily refused. "Can't they see I'm perfect?" I asked my agent. (And the part went to... Mia Farrow.) I pa.s.sed on a chance to do Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile Death on the Nile, since I would have spent most of the film as a corpse. (The part went to... Lois Chiles.) Certain actresses would become my nemesis: When John Schlesinger declared me too old and not vulnerable enough for The Day of the Locusts The Day of the Locusts, the part went to... Karen Black. And she got the part 1 was hoping to play in Family Plot Family Plot, which turned out to be Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's final film.

I was also hoping to play the fictionalized Norma Shearer role in The Last Tyc.o.o.n The Last Tyc.o.o.n, a roman a clef about Irving Thalberg, which Harold Pinter had adapted from the final novel of F. Scott Fitzgerald. The producer, Sam Spiegel, and the director, Elia Kazan, asked to meet me at a Beverly Hills hangout called the Bistro Gardens. It was mid-afternoon (possibly they'd heard about my appet.i.te and didn't want to spring for lunch?) so the restaurant was almost empty, save for the waiters rattling cutlery as they set up tables for the dinner service. I knew that Kazan was a major Hollywood player, that he had cofounded the Actors Studio (birthplace of "the Method"). He introduced James Dean to the movie-going public in East of Eden East of Eden, exposed union corruption in On the Waterfront On the Waterfront, and a.s.sailed anti-Semitism in Gentlemen's Agreement Gentlemen's Agreement. I also knew of his controversial testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee and his part in the Hollywood blacklisting. When he named colleagues who were suspected of being Communists, Stella Adler said that he committed matricide and patricide. But the luxury of turning down jobs based on political beliefs is something most actors can't afford.

Kazan was quiet during our meeting, but Spiegel talked about working in n.a.z.i Germany in the early 1930s and using the pseudonym S. P. Eagle when he first came to this country, thinking it sounded cla.s.sy and American. He kept looking at the red and blue scarf double-wrapped around my neck, as if it were making him itchy and finally said, "Honey, take that thing off."

"I can't," I said with what I thought was amusing drama, clutching my throat, "I have a hideous scar." Kazan perked up and exchanged a glance with Spiegel--if the scene had been a cartoon, the caption would have red: "How can she talk with her foot in her mouth?" (The part went to... Ingrid Boulting.) I went around serenading myself with a childhood rhyme that I would repeat with a certain self-absorption for years to come: "n.o.body loves me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms. Big fat juicy ones, little tiny skinny ones. Boy how they're gonna squirm." After my notices for At Long Last Love At Long Last Love, it took granite ovaries to call the great jazz saxophonist Stan Getz and ask him to collaborate on an alb.u.m called Mad About the Boy Mad About the Boy, named for the Cole Porter standard. The Producer produced the alb.u.m. We were afraid to have Peter's name anywhere near it, for fear of enflaming the critics, but the three of us financed it, putting up $10,000 each. Getz came on to me, and when I declined, he snarled, "It's your fault if I go back to being a junkie and a juicehead," ignoring me for the rest of the session. The alb.u.m remained in limbo for four years, as I personally shopped it around and got turned down at the major record labels. (There's nothing like rejection right in your face to keep you humble.) Miraculously, a few jazz critics actually heard it and liked it (being compared in the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times to Lee Wiley and Ella Fitzgerald is about as good as it gets). Eventually the alb.u.m was released by a small company called Inner City Records, which went bankrupt a few years later. The company's lawyer ended up with rights to the musical catalog, changed the name of my alb.u.m to to Lee Wiley and Ella Fitzgerald is about as good as it gets). Eventually the alb.u.m was released by a small company called Inner City Records, which went bankrupt a few years later. The company's lawyer ended up with rights to the musical catalog, changed the name of my alb.u.m to Cybill Getz Better Cybill Getz Better, and informed me that the copies I requested would cost me an additional $10,000. I suggested he change the t.i.tle to Cybill Getz Screwed Cybill Getz Screwed.

With Peter's approval, I had decided to rent a room of my own, a tiny studio in a tall tower on the oceanfront in Santa Monica. It was decorated with photographs of Buster Keaton, a shrine to his comic genius complete with burning candles, and I had every surface except the floor covered with smoky mirrors. One drawer of my bureau was filled with naughty gifts from Peter intended to enliven our s.e.x life--motorized erotic gadgetry, books about tapping the lower chakras for full s.e.xual awakening, crotch-less panties from Frederick's of Hollywood. (The toys were okay, but I'd just as soon go into the vegetable department of a store to find playthings, although the moral majority is probably working on legislation outlawing cuc.u.mbers.) Peter called the apartment the Love Pavilion (there was no place to sit except the king-size bed), and together we sang the lines about "our little den of iniquity" from a Rodgers and Hart lyric: "For a girlie and boy, a radio's got so much cla.s.s, and so's a ceiling made of gla.s.s."

I don't know if Peter a.s.sumed he was the only "boy," but I was pretty sure I wasn't the only "girlie" in his life. My dance instructor on At Long Last Love At Long Last Love had told me about one of his flings. I was horrified, shocked, angered, and ultimately relieved. He never asked what went on in my apartment beyond his ken--we were still operating under our policy of mutual nondisclosure, and the apartment made it easier for me to see The Producer. But shuttling between two lovers did not preclude my taking a third, or fourth, or fifth. Perhaps my infidelity was a dysfunctional way of hedging my bets so I wasn't as vulnerable as my mother, a.s.suring I'd never be left by the man I loved. What was so unsatisfying about the relationship with Peter that I needed to do this? Was I trying to reclaim some control over the man who represented all the power, all the money, just as my grandfather had? Peter had given me s.e.xual license, but he surely did not imagine that I would dare extracurricular activities quite so recklessly close to home, practically using his Rolodex as a personal dating service. had told me about one of his flings. I was horrified, shocked, angered, and ultimately relieved. He never asked what went on in my apartment beyond his ken--we were still operating under our policy of mutual nondisclosure, and the apartment made it easier for me to see The Producer. But shuttling between two lovers did not preclude my taking a third, or fourth, or fifth. Perhaps my infidelity was a dysfunctional way of hedging my bets so I wasn't as vulnerable as my mother, a.s.suring I'd never be left by the man I loved. What was so unsatisfying about the relationship with Peter that I needed to do this? Was I trying to reclaim some control over the man who represented all the power, all the money, just as my grandfather had? Peter had given me s.e.xual license, but he surely did not imagine that I would dare extracurricular activities quite so recklessly close to home, practically using his Rolodex as a personal dating service.

The Director was someone whose work Peter and I both admired, a craggy-faced man moran twenty-five years my senior who tended to wear long gold chains and a thick gold ID bracelet and was married to a famous actress. We were on the same Hollywood party circuit, making the occasional foursome for dinner.

Peter was out of town when The Director called, and while we were talking, I somehow ended up on the bathroom floor with the telephone cord looped around me twice. When he asked what I was doing, I embroidered the truth into something more provocative.

"I'm lying in an empty bathtub," I said. "I often do that when I'm on the phone."

He responded with a well-timed laugh and the appropriate question. "What do you wear while lying in the empty bathtub?"

"What does one usually wear in the tub?" I answered.

"Interesting," he said. "I never knew you were this crazy."

I mentioned the shrine to Buster Keaton at my beach apartment. "I'd love to see it," he said. "Will Peter be upset if I take you to dinner?"

"Surely not with you," I said.

We arranged to meet at the apartment. "You smell incredible," he said when I opened the door. "What is that scent?"

"Why honey, it's magnolia oil," I replied in my best southern drawl. As he stepped past me, he jingled the change in his pocket distractedly and squirted his mouth with Binaca breath freshener. When I saw him looking for a place to sit, I ran to the balcony for a wooden stool, then changed my mind. "Let's go to the pier," I said. ''It'll be an adventure."

The Santa Monica pier was a faded relic of the Roaring Twenties, with a few seafood shanties, some rundown souvenir stands, and a wonderful carousel, closed on this chilly, foggy night. I was peering through the locked gates at its painted stallions when I heard change jingling again. It seemed to be The Director's version of clearing his throat.

"Are you ready to go back?" he asked.

No, I wanted to walk all the way out to the end of the pier, deserted except for a few fishermen, who avoided eye contact. He walked along with me, grudgingly admiring my hitch-kicks over several garbage cans. As we got back to his car, he looked at me with a cold, self-a.s.sured expression. "If this was a scene," he said, "I'd rewrite it."

"How?" I asked.

"Oh, I'd have to sit at my typewriter," he said. "That's where the juices start flowing. I rent a house out in Malibu. It's the only place in Los Angeles where I can breathe. Why don't we go out there? You don't have to worry. It'll be perfectly all right." I didn't know if he was rea.s.suring me that he had no designs on me, that he wouldn't overstep the boundaries of his friendship with Peter, or that we wouldn't get caught. I didn't know which I wanted. But if you have to ask, maybe you shouldn't do it.

The beach house was so close to the ocean that it vibrated with each breaker, and a depressing dampness filled the rooms and every surface, even the toilet seat. "Will you excuse me a minute?" he said rather formally. He was gone more than a half hour, performing, I a.s.sumed, some preseduction toilette. (I heard a Binaca spritz at least once.) We went for a walk on the beach while he smoked a loosely rolled joint, getting red-eyed and more withdrawn. Then we sat on the sofa making excruciating small talk until he finally said, "It's getting late. I'd better take you home."

He phoned the next afternoon. "I called my psychiatrist today," he said. "We're just friends now--I finished my a.n.a.lysis three years ago-and I mentioned the situation with you. He thought that I was confused and guilty and that it would probably be healthy to indulge my impulsesquo; 'There was a lingering pause. "What kind of time did you have last night?"

"Horrible," I admitted.

"Me too," he said. "I wanted you, but I had no idea how you felt. I thought you found me unattractive, and I was afraid of being rejected."

I rea.s.sured him that he was every man's idea of Adonis, and moved on to another card in the Rolodex.

Peter and I were good friends of the director John Ca.s.savetes and his wife, the actress Gena Rowlands. John was one of the world's great flirts, but when I phoned him at his office one day, I couldn't get him to play.

"How are you?" I asked, an obvious siren call.

"Why are you calling me here?" he said with irritation. "What are you doing?"

Good question. I didn't know what I was doing. I no longer believed that s.e.xual desire meant love, but I was still convinced that I was out of control, therefore not culpable. I was using men and being used. (There is no coldheartedness toward someone else in which the cold heart is not also hurt.) As long as I didn't get caught, I believed I was okay. I had learned early on that love is not about what you feel, but what you can get if you act lovingly, as I had with my grandfather. Men were supposed to want me, but I wasn't supposed to want them. When I disconnected from my mother's moral stance, which was based on the idea that my only value to the culture was s.e.xual but I wasn't supposed to enjoy it, I lost the protective, parental voice in my head, the voice that says: Cybill, what are you doing? Cybill, what are you doing?

It took years to gain some understanding of my desperate s.e.xuality. I had to believe in myself as a person with value beyond the s.e.xual, a person with boundaries, a person who can say yes when she means yes and no when she means no and know the difference Up until then, I'd been trying to save my life the only way I knew how: lying.

Chapter Seven.

"I NEED A CYBILL SHEPHERD TYPE"

AN OLD HOLLYWOOD JOKE (OFTEN REPEATED WITH THE subst.i.tution of different names) lists the five stages of an actor's career. First: Who is Dustin Hoffman? Second: Get me Dustin Hoffman. Third: Get me a Dustin Hoffman type. Fourth: Get me a young Dustin Hoffman. Fifth: Who is Dustin Hoffman? subst.i.tution of different names) lists the five stages of an actor's career. First: Who is Dustin Hoffman? Second: Get me Dustin Hoffman. Third: Get me a Dustin Hoffman type. Fourth: Get me a young Dustin Hoffman. Fifth: Who is Dustin Hoffman?

In 1975, when I was twenty-five years old, my agent, Sue Mengers, got a call from a young director named Martin Scorsese who was casting a movie called Taxi Driver Taxi Driver.

"I need a Cybill Shepherd type," he said.

"How about the real thing?" she asked.

I had to beg Sue to be truthful with me when we first worked together, and after that she was unfailingly, unflinchingly honest. "Just suck up to Marty," she instructed when Scorsese agreed to see me (invoking memories of Moma's suggestion to "love up on Da-Dee's neck"). "Be a nice, sweet, innocent girl. Smile and look pretty. Don't talk a lot, don't make jokes, and don't tell him he needs to sit on a phone book."