In Pieces(82)

Before the play even opened, Burt—who was the director—departed to promote our film, while I stayed behind, performing in a theater containing about seventy-five seats. It was located so close to the railroad tracks we had to incorporate the passing train into each performance—which meant the entire cast turned toward the upstage window as if watching the thunderous thing roll past. But when a Florida rainstorm would unleash itself onto the old tin roof, vibrating the tiny box of a theater with pounding noise, we had to move onto the apron of the stage and scream dialogue directly at the audience. The hardest thing was to keep from laughing, and in that we weren’t always successful.

Baa and I in Jupiter, Florida, where we were performing in Bus Stop.





In retrospect, I realize what a wonderful time that actually was. Since the show ran early in the summer, Peter and Eli were out of school and could come with us. As soon as Burt was gone, the kids chose their spots. Peter wanted to stay in the small wharf-like actors’ commune with Baa and Princess, who had joined us, but every night Eli was mine. After the curtain went down—even though there was no curtain—he would nestle next to me in Burt’s old MG while I maneuvered the pitch-black half-hour drive back to the beach condo, the newest Reynolds acquisition. Throughout every performance Peter would sit backstage, memorizing all the dialogue as he listened to it float through the wings, while Eli waited impatiently to have his mother all to himself.


Early in ’77, it was announced that the Emmys would be canceled that year due to an ongoing dispute between the New York and Hollywood chapters of the National Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. A new ceremony, the Television Critics Circle Awards, was formed to take its place and Sybil was nominated for five awards: best miniseries, best direction, best screenplay, and two nominations for best actress in a leading role: Joanne and me. But the Television Critics Circle Awards were clearly not the Emmys, and as the date for the ceremony approached everyone seemed to question what the hell they actually were. Even so, my agent wanted me to go, Jackie and Stewart wanted me to go—especially since Joanne had refused to attend any awards ceremony, ever. Burt thought the whole thing seemed rather bogus, not to mention rinky-dink, but was willing to go if that’s what I wanted. It was decided. I would go to the first Television Critics Circle Awards ceremony with Mr. Reynolds on my arm, or rather I would be on his.

In those days, an awards ceremony was not treated as if it were the American equivalent of a coronation, the way it is today. But coronation or not, I had no idea how to do any of it. The only awards show I had attended before that, I’d been bedecked in pink taffeta and launched into the audience, two things I wasn’t anxious to do again. This time I purchased a spaghetti-strap dress from I. Magnin department store and sat on the floor of Burt’s enormous bathroom on the day of the ceremony, shortening the floor-length hem while hot rollers cooled in my hair. When at last I slipped into my wine-colored jersey gown, Burt looked at me and with great authority announced that I was too pale. Immediately, he pulled out his personal stash of pancake makeup and rummaged around until he found the half-used cake of Max Factor’s Dark Egyptian—the same stuff that had been slathered on me by an alcohol-smelling body makeup lady using a mildewed sponge in the wee hours of the morning during Gidget. Not only does it itch like crazy when it dries, it also rubs off on everything, and Dark Egyptian is not exactly a subtle shade. But when I think of that moment, standing nervously before a wall of mirrors as Burt carefully painted my exposed body, I realize that I’d take his Earl Scheib job over the finest hair and makeup artist anytime. True, I ended up looking like Sacagawea with very curly hair, but it was what he had to give. And it makes me smile.

That had been a remarkable year on network television. Both Alex Haley’s profoundly important miniseries, Roots, and the made-for-television movie Eleanor and Franklin: The White House Years, which the wonderful Dan Petrie had also directed, were nominated for awards. Needless to say, Sybil didn’t win a Television Critics Circle Award in any category. But it didn’t matter. The whole evening I was so worried about Burt’s health, about the frenzy we had caused at being seen together, and about the unmistakable smudge I was leaving on everyone, I didn’t have much room left to feel disappointed.

Then, three months later, the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences reinstated its award season, and Sybil received the same nominations, which meant this time I was nominated for an Emmy. Unlike Joanne, I didn’t have enough miles in the saddle yet to understand that winning an award is not the truest indication that your work is excellent. I longed to feel that I’d actually conquered something, something that perhaps only I could see, and deeply wanted to be included, to go to the Emmys as a nominee. But my gift card from Burt had already been used up, and when the ceremony rolled around, I was in Santa Barbara, where he was both directing and starring in The End, a film in which I’d been hired to play a small role. For the rest of the shoot, weeks and weeks, I’d stay in order to take care of Mr. Reynolds. As the evening of the ceremony approached, everyone started calling, pleading with me to break away for a few hours, insisting that the studio would send a car, wardrobe would find a dress, and Stewart would be waiting to accompany me. “Go if you want, but be prepared to lose again” were Burt’s words, or maybe the only ones I heard. But what was I looking for? Permission? With only the slightest hint of disapproval from Burt, I felt ashamed of my desire to be accomplished, to be successful, to be recognized, embarrassed that I wanted to attend this award show, to feel that I was no longer a joke in the industry. And if, for a moment, I started to lean in the direction of accepting the studio’s offer, he’d sit on the edge of the bed, gulping air, jabbing his fingers into his chest. I felt stuck in an old pattern: To be loved I had to stop being me. Matter of fact, I had to stop being anyone.