I'll Scream Later (No Series) Page 15

  I spent a week filming, then went back to the States for a week for an event in New York I couldn’t miss. When I came back to Nicaragua, I was armed with a bunch of baseballs to give out to the kids that hung around the set every day—baseball was a national passion there—and $20 bills to buy food and other necessities from one of the few stores in Managua that was well stocked and only took U.S. dollars.

  The per diem money came in giant stacks that were incredibly hard to handle. At the end of my time there I gave my remaining per diem to my driver—a stack of the local currency, córdoba bills, that was about ten inches high. He broke down in tears, and someone told me later that I’d given him the equivalent of a year’s salary.

  It was a good thing we were all passionate about the film because the creature comforts were few. There were no trailers; we all changed clothes in the back of the same trucks that were used to cart in supplies. The people were wonderful, but the food…well, it wasn’t great. A lot of the cast and crew were hit with bouts of intestinal viruses from the food and water there. I was spared. Jack wasn’t.

  One day we were shooting in the forest and Jack told me he was dying, really dying; he had to get to a bathroom right away. The Porta Potties set up for the production were, I’ll admit, pretty disgusting. “I can’t even go in there,” he said.

  His face was pale and getting paler. He was drenched in sweat and not just from the heat. I looked around and pointed a little deeper into the forest. “Just go in there, I’ll come back for you in five minutes.”

  Jack is an incredible trouper in many ways. He can face down huge crowds, hostile reporters, angry studio execs. He cannot, however, use the bathroom in the great outdoors. I came back in a few minutes. He looked even more miserable and said, “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  So Jack went off in search of better facilities, and I fended for myself that day. Luckily the people of Granada had embraced the production. A family took Jack in for the day, gave him the use of their bathroom, which was modest but clean, fed him Pedialyte to keep him from getting more dehydrated, and let him sleep there through the afternoon.

  On set with Ed Harris

  ED HARRIS—WHAT CAN I say? He is the ultimate professional, always working on the craft, absolutely disappearing inside his character. And in case you haven’t noticed—great, expressive, beautiful eyes, and an amazing smile. I adored working with him.

  I can look back now at the scenes we had together and they feel completely organic. He didn’t have to sign extensively, but he handled it so naturally, nothing ever felt forced.

  In one scene Walker comes back and finds that Ellen has died. I’m laid out in a coffin, a rosary in my hands. I remember lying there, sweating in that wool dress with its long sleeves, high collar, and floor-length skirt, eyes closed, rosary clutched in my hands, and praying, praying that none of my Jewish forebearers were looking down and seeing me!

  Without meaning to, I got caught up in international politics for a brief flash while I was there. Whenever I shoot in other countries or visit them, I try to take a trip to the local schools, and Deaf schools if they have them.

  On my second day in Nicaragua, I spent some time at a school for the Deaf in Managua—La Escuela Centro Especialidad. I came to see the children, who were so sweet and put on a terrific performance for me.

  I learned two lessons that day. One, never forget that sign language is different in different counties—I found out that the way we in American sign a T is an obscene gesture there. And never underestimate the power of mixing Hollywood and politics.

  I went to the school to meet the children, but Nicaraguan president Daniel Ortega also came by to present me with an award. Suddenly the school was a crush of reporters and photographers, and no one wanted to shoot pictures of me with the kids.

  A simple visit had turned into a political event. By morning, photos of Ortega and me were splashed across newspapers both in the United States and throughout Mexico and Central America. I’m at my most informal—wearing a Walker T-shirt, my hair in a ponytail—smiling and talking to the leader of a country with nothing but bad relations with my own. Suddenly everyone wanted to know my politics, what I thought about the embargo, Ortega. I was getting hounded by the press; requests for interviews were piling up.

  Who would have thought that an innocent visit to a school for the Deaf would trigger an international incident with President Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua an me? (Credit: Julio Donoso/CORBIS SYGMA)

  It got so crazy, the production organized a press conference. I agreed, hoping to be able to talk about the film and my character, but no one was interested in Walker or Ellen Martin. What they wanted to know was why an Oscar-winning actress was meeting with the president of Nicaragua. There had to be something more to the story than that I wanted to visit a local school for Deaf children.

  The day of the press conference, the room was packed not by entertainment journalists, but by political reporters from all over. I was hammered with questions. What were my politics? Did I support the Sandinistas? How well did I know Ortega? What did I think of the U.S. position on the war here? It was crazy.

  The entire time, photographers’ flashbulbs were going off. After a while, I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I threw up my hands and asked Jack to end it. Just end it.

  29

  RANDOM QUESTION—WHY DO they call them Secret Service agents since you can pick them out of a crowd in a heartbeat?

  In May 1987, I was in Los Angeles at the Four Seasons Hotel at a fund-raiser for the Jewish Home for the Aging, where my grandmother Rose was now living.

  I spotted these guys with close-cropped hair in crisp, blindingly white shirts, dark suits, ties, and black earpieces with cords snaking down and disappearing inside their coats, milling around in one of the hallways. I looked at Jack and said, “I bet the president is here. I want to meet him.”

  “You can’t do that, you can’t just walk up and say, ‘I want to meet the president!’” But that’s exactly what I did.

  I walked over, tapped an agent on the shoulder, and said, “Hi, I’m Marlee Matlin and I’d really like to meet the president and I need to be able to tell him a little story.”

  After a brief discussion among the Secret Service agents—thankfully one of them was a fan and decided I was not a national security threat—one of them disappeared behind a doorway.

  In a flash, Jack and I were escorted into this room, flanked by Secret Service, and there was former president Gerald Ford, smiling.

  We shook hands and he said, “Marlee, both Betty and I loved you in Children of a Lesser God.”

  I was beaming and said, “I just wanted to tell you that I have always been and will forever be grateful to your wife for opening up the Betty Ford Center, because I was there for my own drug addiction. I’ve been sober now for more than four months!”

  “Well, congratulations. I’m proud of you for taking care of yourself,” he said. “Betty will be so pleased to hear.”

  Years later, I would meet President Reagan in an equally random way. I was getting my hearing aid adjusted at the House Ear Institute in L.A. Suddenly they started clearing everyone out of the building. Former president Reagan was due in a few minutes. Dr. House asked if I wanted to meet him and said he’d be glad to introduce me.

  Then the hallway was filled with the dark suits and white shirts…and I saw President Reagan standing in a dark gray suit, and I remember his hair was as black as night.

  Dr. House came out and introduced me, saying, “This is Marlee Matlin, who won an Academy Award for Children of a Lesser God.”

  President Reagan sort of looked at me…he was a big, tall guy, then he smiled and said, “Well, I never won one of those.”

  IN JUNE 1987, I got a call from Jennifer Beals—we had stayed in touch after the Paramount bash and tried to get together whenever our schedules would let us. She’d just finished her final photography project at Yale, with a special exhibition scheduled of her work.


  She invited me and Jack up to Westport to stay with her over the July Fourth holiday and see the exhibition. I was vague, maybe I could, maybe I couldn’t.

  By now, Bill had bought a house in Snedens Landing. This beautiful home was in an even more beautiful area in the Hudson River valley that was a popular enclave for both artists and actors. Snedens Landing was quiet, surprisingly remote despite being just about a half hour from midtown Manhattan. It should have been the most peaceful place, surrounded by nature so that all your cares can just melt away. I dreaded it. The place and its remoteness frightened me.

  On July Fourth, Jack went to visit Jennifer, relaying my apologies—plans with Bill that I couldn’t cancel. Really, we were just spending the weekend in Snedens Landing. He was never interested in meeting my friends.

  The following day was a typical, hot East Coast summer day with humidity so thick you could cut it with a knife. That morning I was watching Sid and Nancy, feeling so drawn to the film, and of course it felt different watching it now that I had worked with the director, Alex Cox.

  I don’t remember when or how the fight started; what I know is that I have never been as scared in my life before or after that day.

  The struggle turned violent. I was afraid I might not survive. I pulled myself free and ran to the phone. I called Christine Vericker. She was married to Bill’s AA sponsor and had become a good friend. They lived not too far away.

  Before I could say anything, Bill yanked the phone out of my hand and slammed it down. I said a quick prayer, thanking God that he hadn’t ripped it out of the wall. Minutes later I broke free again, grabbed the phone again, and called Christine. This time the call went through. I sobbed, “Please come get me, please. Hurry, please.”

  Bill turned on his heel and stormed out of the house.

  Christine immediately dispatched her husband, Billy, to pick me up. She thought that if anyone could reason with Bill, he could.

  It was a little like what I imagine you do in a fire or a flood or some other emergency when you only have a few minutes to get out. I grabbed a small bag, stuffed a few things in it, got my purse, nothing else. I left almost everything I owned there, including my cat, Otis.

  I barely remember crawling into Billy’s car or the ride to the Verickers’ house. So many emotions were coursing through me. How had the love between Bill and me turned into this? Why were we killing each other this way? How could we ever patch things up after today?

  Deep down, I knew the only way to recover from this day would be for me to never go back to him. That was a great, great sadness.

  Christine remembers, “It was a hot, hot day, and Marlee came in crying these huge sobs, and she was shaking. She was wearing a jean jacket so she was completely covered up. I thought she should go to a hospital, but she refused. She was worried that someone would recognize her, that Bill would find out.”

  Christine insisted I see a doctor anyway and called her ob-gyn, Dr. Robert Gallo, and asked if he would examine me right away. He agreed.

  Dr. Gallo remembers, “Christine had called my wife and explained the situation. I was going to do an assessment, make sure there was no major trauma. Marlee was upset and embarrassed—she cried during the exam but had clearly been crying a lot beforehand. She asked me not to say anything to anyone, and I assured her I wouldn’t and I haven’t spoken of it until this day.

  “There were fresh bruises on her arms and her face, but no major tissue trauma. I felt my role at that point was more of moral support and to assure them there were no major medical issues.”

  I felt lost. The kindness of those around me—Christine, Billy, Dr. Gallo—helped. But I did not know how I was going to get through the next twenty-four hours, the next week, much less how I was going to rebuild my life.

  I called my sister-in-law, Gloria, that night around ten and said, “I need you, Glo,” and asked her to come as soon as she could. She did; she got on a plane that night and landed around 2 a.m.

  In the days after that, Jack would go over to Bill’s and pack up my clothes, my life. I knew I couldn’t let myself go back—ever. I was terrified for two reasons: we would in all likelihood fight again, or just as bad, I might not have had the strength to leave.

  In a stroke of luck, Jack had just rented an apartment on Waverly Place in Greenwich Village, but hadn’t yet moved over from student housing at NYU. He stayed at the university and let me have the apartment instead.

  It was a huge studio loft that Gertrude Stein had once lived in. Right below was the Coach House, the legendary restaurant that got a mention in Prince of Tides and was famous for scrumptious American fare and was a longtime favorite of James Beard’s when he was alive. The smells that would sometimes waft upstairs were heavenly.

  The loft was right across from Washington Square Park. The floor slanted wildly toward the front of the building, and I would sit there, curled up, looking out the window and trying to figure out my new life.

  Gloria and Jack helped me set up the apartment and buy all the basics. Gloria remembers, “It was a very emotional time for her and also for me. We did have some fun that week. We did a lot of walking, eating, and laughing. I felt like we had the chance that week to get reacquainted. As I was leaving, Marlee said, ‘You need to have another baby, you’re such a good mom.’ I laughed then, but I got home and a week later I was pregnant with our daughter, Arielle.”

  It was the first time that I had lived alone ever. I didn’t do much to fix the place up—it never felt like home, just a way station to somewhere else.

  30

  AUGUST BROUGHT WITH it a sense of freedom and relief. No more walking on eggshells. No more trips to the edge of the volcano. No more volcano!

  I wanted to breathe deeply, let the muscles in my body relax, embrace life in a different way, laugh—a lot. That was my personal prescription.

  Rob Lowe, with his amazing smile and blue, blue eyes, helped get the party started.

  But let me back up a little. I’d got to know Stephen Collins, who years later became the anchor of the popular family series 7th Heaven, and his wife, Faye Grant, through Jack. Stephen invited us to come see him in The Three Sisters, a Chekhov play that was one of the productions at the Williamstown Theatre Festival that year.

  This terrific festival does so much to nurture the tradition of the theater, and in such a beautiful spot. I fell in love with the Berkshire Hills of western Massachussetts, which was easy to do.

  The festival always attracts top actors—in addition to Stephen the cast of The Three Sisters featured Amy Irving, John Heard, Christopher Walken, Kate Burton, and Rob Lowe, among others.

  We were all hanging out after the show talking with Faye and Michael Unger, who had just finished appearing with her in The Rover earlier in the festival, when Rob walks up. I thought, Oh my god, Rob Lowe, Rob Lowe!

  The always gracious Mr. Unger stepped in quickly and said, “Marlee, this is our friend Rob Lowe.” I’d like to say that I played it totally cool, that my jaw didn’t drop, but it did. I recovered nicely though.

  We hit it off immediately—he was so funny and laid-back and easy to be around. No complications, no tension, no dark moods.

  With Rob, everything was easy. We drifted into a comfortable friendship—friends with benefits. One unforgettable night on the beach in Santa Monica we had all the light we needed from the luminescence of the fish swimming near the shore.

  I hung out a lot with the sweet, playful, extremely flirtatious Mr. Lowe, who is gorgeous to this day. Together we’d hit concerts—U2 one month. Springsteen another—or parties, and we had a grand time vamping it up on a photo shoot for the cover of the now defunct In Fashion magazine. He was described as a Hollywood heart-throb; I was called strong-willed and magical. It was a kick teaming up like that with him, and that cover photo remains one of my favorites—as does Rob.

  In Fashion threw a big party in New York for the issue, which came out in the spring of 1988. I’ll never forget getting to ride on MGM’s p
rivate plane, which took us to the party. The plane was so luxe, everything was tricked out to be top-of-the-line. Even the bathrooms were plush, so plush that Jack felt moved to include them in the video he shot of the trip. But then that boy can get crazy with a video camera. He shot a few behind-the-scenes videos of some of the early projects we worked on together that are easily two or three times longer than the movies themselves turned out to be.

  Rob and I would finally get to work together years later on The West Wing. But more than anything else, Rob introduced me to a new Hollywood circle that included everyone from Demi Moore and Bruce Willis to Charlie Sheen and Robert Downey Jr., to Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden.

  Rob was interested in politics and pulled me into that world along with him. I was his date for an Actors Fund gala in D.C. Through Rob, and his assistant Stephanie Matlow, who would become a good friend, I became involved with other young actors who mobilized for voter registration drives and fund-raisers.

  I was a guest of Senator Joseph Biden’s at the Bork confirmation hearings. I got involved in support of SANE—the Committee for a SANE Nuclear Policy.

  The political involvement I was introduced to by Rob would quickly grow into full-blown activism on the issues that matter most to me.

  AT THE END of August, I went back to Chicago for a joint birthday celebration with Liz. I was turning twenty-two.

  It was a great party; all my family and friends were there. We had a cake with twenty-two candles for me and twenty-three for Liz. It’s amazing it didn’t set off the fire alarms. There was dancing and much laughing—and karaoke, big-time! It was a happy time and I started to feel that things were going to get better.

  Not long after that, I flew to Australia for a round of publicity, and their version of 60 Minutes wanted to do a piece on me. While there, I visited one of the country’s schools for Deaf children and was really bothered by how primitive it seemed. They were providing the fundamentals, but nothing more. But I loved spending time with the children.