In Pieces(67)

Oddly enough, Rafelson had been one of the creator/producers of The Monkees television series, though we’d never met roaming around the Screen Gems lot. Bob went on to direct The King of Marvin Gardens and Five Easy Pieces, both well-regarded films with a liberal peppering of Actors Studio faces, Jack Nicholson’s being one of them. I didn’t know it at the time, but my work at the Studio over the years had started some chatter, at least among the Studio members, and that chatter had filtered down to Dianne, which was one reason my name had been put on the list. The second reason was the fact that Ms. Crittenden happened to be good friends with Zohra Lampert, the wonderful actress cast as my best friend on the thankfully short-lived The Girl with Something Extra. Zohra and I had been together for all those months, both of us struggling to make the show better, times that usually ended in a tussle between me and my bouffant-haired co-star, John Davidson—who once accused me of having Helen Reddy up my ass. Lovely Zohra, whom I hadn’t seen since we wrapped, reportedly told Dianne that though I was well known, I was totally undiscovered. So my name went on her list.


I really couldn’t tell what the script was about, but I knew my interpretation couldn’t be unclear and vague, even if the screenplay was. The character of Mary Tate Farnsworth was southern, and appeared to be uneducated, economically challenged, and physically inclined—a champion water-skier (sweet Jesus, another water sport). She was also sexual, with an open, easy, “no big deal” kind of sensuality, an ingredient that I didn’t own, or not on the surface at least. These were the specifics I had to work with.

David Craig always said that most directors, or whoever was sitting in the casting chair, rarely looked for the best actor to play the part, but instead waited for the actual character to walk through the door. Only when an actor has created a vast and diverse enough body of work, with enough recognition attached, will they be given the opportunity to play a character unlike the very person that they appear to be. And even then, it’s rare.

With that in mind, I knew my task. I had to be Mary Tate Farnsworth, not Sally Field reading for the role. They had to think that the work I had done in The Flying Nun and Gidget must have been one hell of an acting job, because in reality, I was exactly like Mary Tate with her “come here and fuck me” attitude. I had to undo what they thought they knew of me, had to prepare for the audition knowing that it would begin the minute I walked into Dianne Crittenden’s office. And that’s what I did. Wearing a pair of threadbare hip-hugger jeans and a red crop top, I nonchalantly sauntered into Dianne’s small room, stopping briefly to shake hands and flash her a quick smile. Hard to miss were the stacks of head shots scattered across her desk, photos of actresses with their résumés attached on the back, reminding me yet again that I didn’t have any eight-by-ten glossies to hand out. But for God’s sake, I never went on any auditions, so what was the point?

I flopped into one of the two chairs against the opposite wall, slouching down until my butt almost hung off the seat, then began mindlessly snapping and unsnapping the top of my jeans. As I waited, fiddling with my pants, Dianne went in and out several times to inquire about the delay, always smiling at me with a little nod of acknowledgment. When she left the room for the fourth or fifth time, I knew that things were not running smoothly and I began to suspect that Dianne had put my name on the list without telling anyone else. Then, from the other room, the mumbled blur of a conversation got louder and more emphatic than it had been since I’d arrived, which by now was almost an hour before. I could hear a man—whom I assumed to be Rafelson—spewing aggravation, punctuating the end of a sentence with what I thought was my name. And when I realized that they were definitely talking about me, my pounding heart slowed. Using my newly acquired acting skills, I allowed my anger to fuel and not overwhelm me. I had a job to do and if I’d been a gun, I would have been locked and loaded.

When the door abruptly swung open and Bob Rafelson—wearing goofy-looking aviator-like glasses—stood in its frame, I didn’t sit up. Like holding the reins of a bolting horse, I pulled back on the fury vibrating through me, remaining aloof as if I’d been waiting for a bus and this simply wasn’t it. He invited me to follow him into his window-lined office, where I entered to shake hands with Charles Gaines, who had adapted the screenplay from his own novel and who would be my scene partner, playing the Jeff Bridges character. Dianne, who had insisted over much objection that I be allowed to audition, quietly slipped in behind us to sit on the sofa toward the back of the room.

I was directed to one of the two chairs across from Bob’s desk, where he now sat with his feet over the empty top. It’s not that Bob was rude, or cruel. He wasn’t. He was only distracted and perfunctory, like he was going through the motions as quickly as possible, which meant—thankfully—there was not much chatter before he nodded to begin. With script in hand, I said my first line of dialogue looking directly at Charles, who was sitting in the chair next to me. When he dribbled out a flat response, his eyes never leaving the page, I realized he was either the world’s worst actor or he didn’t give a shit… or both. I waited, without saying anything, staring right at Charles, who never looked up at me. With deliberate calmness, I held my script in the air, let it drop to the ground, then moved to the writer, who became completely befuddled as I tossed his screenplay to the side and straddled him. Now I had his full attention and with a titillated smirk he stuttered, “I don’t know the words.” Slowly lowering myself onto his lap, I replied, “Yes you do. If not, fake it.” The scene continued, but it was not the scene they’d heard twenty times before. Nor was the second one they asked me to read. And when I sensed they had run out of material, I grabbed my script, looked Rafelson in his now smug-less face, thanked him, then left the room and the building.