In Pieces(37)

I continued to do all of the closer flying shots, which were mostly filmed on Stage 2 at Screen Gems, where our sets were located. Wearing the same dreaded harness, I’d be cranked up ten or twelve feet off the ground in front of a blue or a green screen with two big fans standing just off camera to blow a steady gale in my face—the whole thing aptly called “poor man’s” process. I can’t say the days on the outside were more fun, but they were less painful for sure. Once the camera was in place, and the wires painted the color of the screen, and the wind blowing at just the right angle, I’d have to dangle there for what seemed like hours, leaning on or over a ladder between shots—usually supplied by a thoughtful grip.

When I was asked to surf for Gidget, the studio had provided me with a lesson or two, but no one gave me any pointers on how to perform in the air and no one thought I might benefit from a singing lesson or two… or four hundred. Because not only did Sister Bertrille fly, she also sang, something that didn’t come naturally to me—not that flying did. I’d always wanted to sing, and knew every musical by heart, but damn, I could not sing. And, as much as that tormented me, the studio didn’t see it as a problem. Every weekend they’d drag me into a recording studio, then place a pair of padded headphones over my ears and tell me to sing. I remember waiting, early one Saturday morning, on a bench outside one of the stages, filled with dread because I was going to have to stand up straight and do something I had no idea how to do. I’d been exactly on time to the Capitol Records Tower just off Hollywood Boulevard, but the stage I’d been assigned to was still occupied, so I sat there. For hours.

Finally, the door flew open and Grace Slick—along with much of Jefferson Airplane—stumbled out after having been ensconced for days, leaving me to fill their marijuana-infused stage with my zippy little tunes. My hair in braids, hands in my pockets, I stood on the worn wooden floor surrounded by abandoned music stands while the producers moved into place behind the glass wall of the booth. Finally, the sound mixer put his hand on the enormous instrument board, I slipped the earphones over my head, then stepped under the huge hanging mic, and we were rolling. Yes, I could clearly hear the prerecorded track through the headset, but for Christ’s sake, I had no idea when to begin. Whatever pride I had was swallowed when the composer/producer stood and pointed at me, as though it were my turn to jump out of the airplane. His finger shot my way and without a parachute, off I went, singing the unforgettable lyrics of “Optimize, optimize and you’ll cut your troubles down to size…” Matters not that the notes were flat, that I didn’t have a clue how to sharpen the pitch; they all smiled, knowing they would fix it in the booth when I wasn’t around. They’d play my voice on top of itself three times, crank up the echo, and presto: humiliation at thirty-three and a third.

The Flying Nun sings, or wishes she did.





In February of 1968, after the show had been on the air for a few months, I was asked to be a presenter at that year’s Golden Globes ceremony. I was thrilled to be included with people whom I admired, real actors. But there was one little caveat: They wanted me to fly across the Cocoanut Grove, where the ceremony was being held, and then present the award. The Golden Globes were only interested in me as the Nun, not as Sally Field. I didn’t know which edge of that sword to feel. I wanted to be invited to the party but I didn’t want to have to be a laughingstock in order to be included. The publicity department, plus Bill Sackheim, repeatedly told me how much they—the studio—wanted me to do it, saying it would be great for the show.

Why was that word, that tiny word, so hard for me to utter? NO. It was a frightening, dangerous word, like the pin in my personal hand grenade, and if I pulled it, I could explode myself, plus everyone around me. And when I’d feel the power of the pin between my fingers, I’d hear the words my mother repeated to me every time I faced a dreaded weekend with my father; they were stitched into my life. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

I was stuck. I desperately did not want to be the joke of the Golden Globes but I was unable to pull the pin and toss out a big fat no. So I finally said, “Okay, I’ll do it… but I won’t wear the habit.” By God, if I had to fly across the Cocoanut Grove, it would be as Sally Field, not the Flying Nun. Which basically made no sense at all.

With my hair in Shirley Temple ringlets and Steve holding my hand, I went to the ceremony wearing a dress that Baa had made for me at the last minute. Then in the midst of the show, and without any rehearsal, I was connected to the damn wires by a man who assured me that he’d flown Mary Martin in Peter Pan billions of times, and without warning, he nonchalantly hoisted me up like a flag on the Fourth of July. And off I went.

Suddenly I was sailing across the historic grove wearing a pink taffeta culottes outfit and heading toward the stage doing what felt like forty-five miles an hour. Directly in front of me, the man onstage widened his stance, bracing for the catch, and at that moment, I realized I was about to make physical contact with John Wayne, one of the most legendary actors who has ever lived. As I got closer to the Duke, I began nodding a polite hello, like we were entering an elevator together. Holy Mother of God, let this night be over. After the catch was accomplished with a thud, he held me in midair while I opened the envelope to read that the best newcomer of the year was Dustin Hoffman for The Graduate. Big applause. Dustin comes to the stage to give his speech of appreciation, as Mr. Wayne steps awkwardly to the side with an armful of smiling me. The happy winner leaves the stage to return to his seat, at which time Mr. Wayne proceeds to put me on the ground (or what would have been the ground if my feet could have touched it, which they could not). Thinking our work together is done, he turns to leave while I begin to dog-paddle my feet. Foolishly, I then look out at the forest of faces, the entire industry, and quickly grab the back of his tuxedo jacket to hitch a ride, pleading, “Oh, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne.” If I’d had a gun I would’ve shot myself, but with the way things were going, it would’ve bounced off the harness and hit some innocent bystander.