I'll Scream Later (No Series) Page 13

  OUTSIDE, THE PRESSURE to reach me was reaching a boiling point. Everyone was calling and yelling at Jack. He stood firm. Day after day, he fielded calls.

  “No, you can’t talk to her. I’m sorry. She’s away. She’s not reachable. I can’t help you.” He must have used variations of that a hundred times. The studio was livid. Among the things I would miss was the London premiere of the movie—Princess Di and Prince Charles made it, but I couldn’t?

  Finally the pressure was too much. My publicity people told Jack I had to do at least one interview, for the Los Angeles Times Magazine. Everyone at the studio and on my publicity team was convinced if I did the interview, I would win the Oscar. It was critical; they demanded I agree. The cover story would feature Paul Newman and me—the actors the magazine was predicting would win that year.

  Long negotiations took place with my counselors at Betty Ford to get them to agree to let me leave for a day. Thankfully none of them involved me; Jack handled that, too.

  It was not just a matter of saying, yes, I would do the interview. Any number of logistical issues had to be dealt with to accommodate the interview and the photo session without letting anyone—especially the writer and the photographer—know that I was in rehab. And my counselors didn’t want to see the progress I had made go up in smoke either.

  Finally, we agreed that on February 21 I would be at the Palm Springs Marriott for the interview at 10:30 a.m. I got up and showered, then put on a nice outfit that I’d borrowed from Pattie, one of the women in my group. No designer duds that day. Jane, my counselor, was going to be with me to make sure I didn’t stumble. Jack was flown in to handle the interpreting.

  So the masquerade began.

  My little plastic hospital bracelet was cut off. I would get a new one when we got back. I asked Jane who she would be. “Your girlfriend.” We laughed at that.

  I was scared—I didn’t want to be found out. In a strange way I felt like a fugitive, too. I was outside, I could easily have just walked away. I wasn’t even tempted. I wanted to go back, it was too much freedom, more than I was ready for.

  Suddenly, you are all on your own and there is no one to hold your hand.

  Still, I was so happy to see Jack. And the interview went well. I felt calm and good about myself. It amazed me that people wanted to know about me, who I was, where I’d come from. The toughest part was waiting for the photographer, who was two hours late. I was angry with him, but it did give me a chance to get a sense of how I would live outside Betty Ford.

  When it was over and I got back into the car, I remember breathing a sigh of relief—all I wanted to do was get back to the center.

  Walking back in felt like walking into a safe zone; it was like sucking my thumb and having my security blanket, too.

  25

  TWENTY-SIX—THE NUMBER OF days I was at Betty Ford.

  Fifteen—the number of letters Bill wrote me.

  Two—the number of telegrams he sent.

  At least this is what I’ve saved. There is even a note one counselor jotted down on a strip of paper torn from a legal pad: Marlee, I called Bill, he also left a message—he said: Our love is more important than the nominations.

  We were apart while I was in Betty Ford, but far from disconnected. I tried not to, but I lived for any word from him. The letters usually left me feeling better—loved and optimistic—our TTY conversations often dissolved into fights. Old habits die hard.

  As I read through the letters now, I can ride the waves of his emotions that month. And my own. I think back sometimes to the moment Randa asked me to describe what waves are like. I would describe them differently now—capturing the way they endlessly pound, over and over, eating away at whatever shoreline they hit.

  Sometimes Bill would write a letter in the morning and another late at night when yet another thought would strike him. Mostly he wrote of love and support for my recovery. Sometimes he wrote about just ordinary things—how our cats, Otis and Bully, were doing, about the house he was living in during the Broadcast News filming in D.C., the weather. Sometimes he sent me prayers or meditations that had moved him, insights he was finding from his own recovery that he thought would help in mine.

  In some of the letters he was trying to work through his feelings of jealousy and resentment at all of the critical notice I was getting for my performance in the film. In one, dated February 4, he finally congratulated me for the Golden Globe win. Apologizing that it was so late in coming. Amen.

  On February 10, the day before the Academy Award nominations, his letter was filled with concern that he might not be able to handle it if I won an Oscar. That at twenty-one I was walking away with so much so fast while he had worked for so many years to get that sort of recognition. If the Oscar was awarded to me, he mused, it would serve as his ultimate humiliation, the innocent making him face his arrogance and pretension.

  On February 10 he wrote again at midnight. It had just occurred to him that because of his Kiss of the Spider Woman Oscar as lead actor the previous year, he would be presenting the Oscar in the Best Actress category, which might be me. He was struck by the irony. He hoped he could be gracious.

  On February 11 the nominations were announced. He tried to get through to my parents and finally got through to my sister-in-law—his conversation with her and his letter to me were all about how we were going to have to deal with this frightening time. Why did it have to be frightening?

  On February 13–14, he wrote just at midnight, just a few words, asking me to be his Valentine.

  On February 14 we talked by phone—he referred to it in his next letter as our own “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.” The letter is dripping with sarcasm and bitterness—words underlined with instructions for me to “go look up” the definitions.

  On February 17 he compares us to Cinderella and the prince going to the Oscars. The tone is light, the love is back. And I wonder how I did not go insane.

  Though Bill and my first boyfriend, Mike, could not have been more different, the conflicts in the relationships in some ways boiled down to the same thing—what my success as an actress would mean for them. How would they bear that burden? Though I hadn’t yet admitted it to myself, in my bones I knew my days with Bill were numbered.

  ON FEBRUARY 28 I left Betty Ford, which was harder and sadder than I had expected it to be.

  I started that day’s journal entry on a flight to Paris for the French premiere of Children of a Lesser God. My month of rehab was bookended by my new celebrity life. Here’s what I was feeling:

  I’m scared about this. Going out to the crazy, zombie world. I want to function well. Will I? Will I go to meetings? I need them….

  Bill and I had a terrible fight on the phone last night. My heart hurts…I’m tired of fighting. I love Bill, but he emotionally drains me. I’m scared of him.

  In Paris, right after my stint at Betty Ford

  In the phone call, he had told me I was prostituting myself for going to Paris to do publicity. I could never reconcile these particular rants since he did more than his share of high-profile interviews. But I was just so tired of trying to understand things like this.

  I would go to AA meetings in Paris. I wanted to hold on to my sobriety. I wanted to reclaim my life.

  Paris was cold, and sometimes rainy. It was hard for me to focus on much beyond trying to figure out how to be a normal human being again without losing all that I had learned during rehab. The premiere itself is a blur.

  Jack, who went along as my interpreter, had spent days before the trip getting lists of all the expat AA meetings in the city. The one I attended was in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, the room choking with thick smoke, a table filled with pastries, a bottomless pot of dark coffee, and generous people who wrapped me in emotional support.

  26

  THE FIFTY-NINTH ANNUAL Academy Awards. Monday, March 30, 1987. Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown L.A. And I had an A-ticket to the show.

  It was like stepping int
o an imaginary world that I’d seen at a distance for years. Suddenly I’m there and it’s all turning out to be very real. Pinching yourself on these occasions helps, too!

  In addition to my nomination, I’d been asked to be a presenter—for Best Achievement in Sound.

  I thought that was funny; thank goodness someone attached to the show had a good sense of humor. Besides, I’ve never wanted to be treated with kid gloves.

  Of course, some around me thought it was insulting and encouraged me to decline. No, no, no, no, no! The Academy wanted me to be a part of the pomp and ceremony, and I wasn’t going to miss out on that for anything.

  Theoni Aldredge would design my dress for the Oscars that year. It was the first time I’d worked with a designer, and Theoni had created many remarkable clothes over the years. This jeans-and-T-shirts girl was meeting a designer who’d already won three Tonys for her work on Broadway and an Oscar for her costume designs for The Great Gatsby in 1975.

  I was so happy that she took on the project and so anxious to get started that I don’t think I ever thanked Theoni properly. My time at Betty Ford, then the trip to Paris to promote the film, had left us with little more than three weeks to get everything done before the show. Luckily, Jennifer Beals was helping me with all the Oscar prep, too…I love that girl.

  Famed Hollywood and Broadway costume designer Theoni Aldredge has won numerous honors in her long career. This is the drawing she gave me of the dress she designed for me to wear to the 1987 Academy Awards when I won an Oscar for Children of a Lesser God.

  Whatever Theoni designed, I knew I wanted to use my favorite color—purple. From the palest whisper of lilac to the deep richness of eggplant, it’s a happy color for me, a good strong color; it can feel tough and feminine at the same time, maybe a little like me. Theoni envisioned a lace dress and sent me samples in different shades—I went with soft lavender—along with lovely sketches of long, fitted sleeves, a tight bodice disappearing into a cummerbund of lavender ribbons that opened into a sweeping skirt with lots of swing and swish to it. The design had a blend of romance and elegance that I loved.

  (If you’re wondering how I stacked up in the celebrity constellation at this point in my career, I should mention that the sketches she sent over were addressed to Marlee Martin…oh, well.)

  Meanwhile, back in New York I stayed busy. I was trying to hit a lot of AA meetings, and the studio wanted to make up for lost time on the publicity front. I also made frequent trips to D.C. since production on Broadcast News was in full swing.

  Bill and I seemed to have reached a sort of détente in those weeks, tentatively stepping around each other in our newly sober lives. He had gotten his son, Alex, a dog, a big furry beast, a border collie name Maggie, one of the sweetest dogs ever and a great distraction whenever the tension would start building between us.

  I was also trying to arrange for my family to make it to L.A. for the Academy Awards show—and I defined family as my mom and dad; my brothers, Marc and Eric; my sister-in-law, Gloria; my nephew, Zach; my hairdresser, Dennis; and of course Liz. Plus Jack was coming to interpret, and he wanted to bring his mom and dad, Sarah and Benny, and brother Sam, too. That meant a request for eleven extra tickets. We got them all.

  Getting ready for the Oscars, 1987

  Bill and I were booked into the Bel-Air Hotel, and on the morning of the awards show my family came over so we could get ready together. At the last minute I decided to wear my hair up, with curls on top, and at the last second my hairdresser, a dear friend who has since died of AIDS, put in a sprig of baby’s breath. I had a new pair of oversize, black, horn-rimmed glasses that I’d just picked up that week. When I debated ditching the glasses, Bill looked at me and said with more than a little sarcasm. “You’re not a model.” So the glasses stayed.

  The look would land me on a few Worst Dressed lists. Cringe, I hate that. But if you try to overthink the fallout from fame in Hollywood, it will drive you completely crazy. Besides, there will always be another dress, another show.

  As the day wore on, tensions between my family and Bill were rising. As Gloria put it, “No one can suck joy out of a room quite like William.” My mom describes his angry eyes as “shooting daggers,” with long silences broken by uncomfortable attempts at conversation.

  The cloud lifted for the red-carpet walk into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. We were the couple of the moment. The media was in love with the plotline—couple meets and falls in love on film set, now they arrive on this day each with an Oscar nomination, and, as Bill had long ago figured out, if I won, he would be presenting the award to me. The three of us—Jack was interpreting—made our way along the crush of reporters, photographers, and a long string of bleachers overflowing with fans.

  It’s hard not to feel your spirits lift in moments like these. There is such a connection—the feeling that it takes all of you together, the combined energy of the stars, the crowd, the photographers, the reporters, to make the moment electric. I have always been so grateful to my fans, they have extended such sincerity to me through the years that never ceases to touch me. I keep waiting to get tired of all of it, but I never do.

  Inside the auditorium my family and Jack’s were tucked away in the farthest reaches of the balcony, but at least they were there! Chevy Chase, Goldie Hawn, and Paul Hogan were cohosts for the evening. Everywhere I turned, major stars were greeting one another. I wanted to be a part of that club.

  A CONFESSION. WHEN you’re up for an award, try as you might, it’s hard to concentrate on the show. The Oscars usually runs a bit over three hours—the longest three hours of my life, not counting labor and childbirth.

  But finally it was time. Bill was behind the lecturn, reading the names of all the nominees. There was the envelope. Snap, the seal was broken. I couldn’t hear it, but I swear I could feel it.

  And the winner is…he said my name, then used my name sign. And that’s when I knew for sure. My stomach dropped. I had, against all odds, won.

  The other nominees in my category were all established stars, and the performances that year were extremely strong. The odds-on favorite to win going into the night had been Kathleen Turner for Peggy Sue Got Married. I had thought it might go to Sissy Spacek for Crimes of the Heart, in a performance I’d loved. The other nominees in the category were Jane Fonda for The Morning After, and Sigourney Weaver for Aliens. To be standing in the company of these women was amazing.

  The applause erupted as I got up and made my way to the stage. The camera panning the other nominees focused on Jane Fonda, who was smiling and saying, “Isn’t that wonderful,” and looking as if she absolutely meant it. When you work in Hollywood, you collect memories like these, or at least I do—those moments of spontaneous kindness that feel absolutely real.

  I wasn’t sure how to approach Bill. I tried to block out all the time he’d spent in recent weeks examining and reexamining the emotional toll my winning would take on him.

  Play it safe, Marlee, keep it professional. I stuck out my hand to shake his—he took it, then pulled me in for a quick, gentle kiss. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe everything would be okay.

  Meanwhile Jack had quickly and as discreetly as possible gotten to his position, too, just a little below the podium. At first the producers had wanted Jack to stay in his seat with a microphone in hand. That was crazy! Jack explained why that wouldn’t work—we actually have to be able to see each other to communicate—so he and the producers came up with a compromise that put him on the steps leading up to the stage.

  Emotions were welling up inside me as I looked out at what felt like the entire entertainment industry. I wanted to savor this moment. Just two years ago, almost to the day, I had been onstage in a small Chicago theater with a minor role in an independent production of Children of a Lesser God. Now I had an Oscar in my hand. Dreams do come true.

  Once again the speech was simple—I thanked my family, Randa, the producers, the cast and crew, though this time I singled out Bill f
or the quality of his artistry, his mastery of the craft, which is exceptional still to this day. I ended with two signs—for “Thank you” and “I love you”—then made my way backstage, where Goldie Hawn grabbed me and gave me the biggest, warmest hug.

  In the chaos backstage I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around. It was Elizabeth Taylor. I had to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. Talking to her even just for a moment was mind-blowing.

  Great moments like that were sprinkled throughout the night. Variety’s celebrity columnist Army Archerd learned to sign “Congratulations” before the show in case I won, then used it when he saw me. Later that night at a party, both Sissy and Sigourney were so gracious and generous in their good wishes, too.

  That didn’t mean everyone was on my side—the New York Daily News film critic Rex Reed wrote a scathing piece telling Academy voters that they would be wasting their vote on me. I wasn’t “acting,” I was merely a Deaf girl playing a Deaf girl. He predicted that if I won, it would be a fluke, there would be no career for Marlee Matlin.

  I’ve got to be honest—that hurt like hell. You try not to take that sort of criticism to heart, but it’s not easy. But by the way, Rex, I was not even close to giving up on Hollywood, and it wasn’t through with me either.

  I am still the youngest woman to win an Oscar in the category Actress in a Leading Role, and one of only a handful to win an Oscar in their debut performance. I love the precision of the Academy on this: I was specifically twenty-one years and 218 days old on Oscar night.