Then Again. Diane Keaton
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smashed into his new Ford station wagon with the old Buick station wagon, and spent a half hour in the bathroom using up a whole can of Helene Curtis hairspray. For one thrilling moment I was his Seabiscuit, Audrey Hepburn, and Wonder Woman rolled into one. I was Amelia Earhart flying across the Atlantic. I was his heroine.
Later, Dad would boast about my career, but it was “Mata Hari” that became our watershed moment. There were no words. It was all—every timeless second—encapsulated in his piercing light-blue eyes. The ones Mom fell in love with. There was no going back.
3
MANHATTAN
The Neighborhood Playhouse
I don’t remember getting on the plane that took me three thousand miles away from home when I was nineteen. I don’t remember what I was wearing or what the flight was like. I don’t remember kissing my family goodbye. I remember the bus ride to the city. I remember the YWCA. It was on the West Side. I remember checking in to a tiny room. I remember sitting on the stoop, watching people rush past buildings. I was in the city of my dreams. Every New Year’s Eve I’d sat in front of our twenty-one-inch Philco Predicta television set and watched the ball drop in Times Square. New York was wall-to-wall mile-high buildings. It was the opposite of dinky Santa Ana or even Los Angeles. It was Times Square, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and the Chrysler Building too. But most of all it was New Year’s Eve. It was hundreds of thousands—no, millions—of people gathered together to celebrate the ringing in of a new year. I wanted to stand with them too, right there, right in front of the Broadhurst Theatre, where hits like Pal Joey, Auntie Mame, and The World of Suzie Wong played to packed houses. New York was movies too, movies like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was Audrey Hepburn with the endless cigarette holder dangling from her perfect mouth. New York was my destiny; I was going to study at the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre. I was going to be an actress. And I was ready. That’s when the doorman came over and told me not to sit in front of the Y. That’s all I remember: the city, the room, how ready I was, and “Don’t sit on the stoop.”
At the Neighborhood Playhouse, it was Sandy Meisner. He wore a camel’s hair coat. He smoked and everyone said he was homosexual, even though he’d been married. I’d never heard of a married man who was gay but looked straight. He was mesmerizing and mean and the first grown man I ever thought of as sexy. I loved the ashes that were as long as the cigarette that dangled from his mouth. I loved how they fell onto his camel’s hair coat. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was the most exotic man I’d ever seen.
In Mr. Meisner’s acting class, there were no accolades. Things didn’t go like that. To Sandy, acting was about reproducing honest emotional reactions. He felt that the actor’s job was to prepare for an “experiment that would take place onstage.” His approach was designed “to eliminate all intellectuality from the actor’s instrument and to make him a spontaneous responder,” which could be learned by practicing the Repetition Game. It went like this. A partner—let’s say Cricket Cohen—would make an observation about me. “Diane, you have brown hair.” I listened and repeated the sentence she spoke. “I have brown hair.” Observing some aspect of my hair, Cricket might say, “Your brown hair is also straight and thin.” I would respond with something like, “Yes, my hair is straight and thin.” She would embellish, adding, “Very thin.” I would reply, “You’re right, it is thin, very thin, but not curly like yours.” The implication being, “You got a problem, asshole?” She would respond, “At least my hair is not too thin.” Meaning something to the effect of, “Lay off, bitch. Go back to Santa Ana where you belong.” And on and on, until we both ended up expressing a variety of emotions based on our reactions to each other’s behavior. I took to the Repetition Game like a fish to water.
Sandy Meisner also introduced us to the world of playing with our feelings, especially the embarrassing ones. I learned to use my suppressed anger to good effect. I could cry on a dime, explode, forgive, fall in love, fall out, all in a matter of moments. My weakness? I was “too general.” At the end of the second year, he cast me as Barbara Allen in Dark of the Moon. Rehearsals were fraught with anxiety. One day I entered stage right, singing, “A witch boy from the mountain came, a-pinin’ to be human, for he had seen the fairest gal, a gal named Barbara Allen.” Meisner yelled as only he could, “Why are you traipsing around like you’re Doris fucking Day?”
Sandy taught us to respond to our partner’s behavior. End of discussion. He forced us to hang in with the truth of the moment. No questions. He made observing and listening a prelude to expression. Point-blank. He was simple and direct. Without embellishing, he gave us the freedom to chart the complex terrain of human behavior within the safety of his guidance. It made playing with fire fun. I loved exploring the shared moment, as long as Sandy was watching. There was one cardinal rule: “Respond to your partner first, and think later.” If you broke that rule, he would start laying on the one-liners. “There’s no such thing as nothing.” “In the theater, silence is an absence of words, but never an absence of meaning.” “May I say as the world’s oldest living teacher, ‘Fuck polite!’” More than anything, Sandy Meisner helped me learn to appreciate the darker side of human behavior. I always had a knack for sensing it but not yet the courage to delve into such dangerous, illuminating territory.
The First Year
Dear Family,
The Rehearsal Club is on 53rd Street, right down the block from the Museum of Modern Art. I wish you could see it. It’s an old brownstone. All I can think of is how lucky I am to be rooming with Pam, who is also a new student at the Neighborhood Playhouse. Thank you so much for helping me out. I feel safe, and there’s a lot of other young women who live here, like Sandy Duncan, who is my age but already works professionally, I think as a dancer. All us gals share a phone down the hall. The Rockettes hog it. They have more money, I guess, or maybe they’re just lonely. I don’t know. They work hard, and look hard too. Probably because of all that makeup they wear. I wouldn’t want to be a Rockette for all the money in the world.
School is intense. From 9–5 every day. Wow! I’m very pleased to be working with my partner, Cricket Cohen. She’s excellent to play off of. We practice all the time, and we seem to be doing well. I hope so anyway.
By now, Dorrie’s either a Willard Junior High School cheerleader or not. I hope she got it. Why isn’t Randy dating anyone yet? What’s happening with Robin besides the fact she gave up flag twirling for homework? Wow! Oh, well, I’ve got to study my lines for this scene from Clifford Odets’s Waiting for Lefty. Keep sending photographs. I miss you all.
Love, Diane
Hey, Everyone,
Can’t get to sleep tonight. I feel like I’ve had 5 or 6 cups of black coffee. I got the money you sent. Thank God. Only one more month of the Rehearsal Club, and Pam. I don’t think I should say it like that; I mean, sharing a room has been a real learning experience. I just can’t wait to get home for summer. I’m really nervous about whether I’ll get asked back for the second year. What if I don’t?
I’m here sitting in class doing nothing because my partner, Bernie, hasn’t learned his lines. What a waste of time. Bernie is so annoying. If Mr. Meisner thinks our scene is lousy, it’s going to hurt my chances for next year. He already got rid of Laura, who happened to be really amazing. Do you think I should ask for a new partner? Or would that make me a creep? If I lay into Bernie, it’s not going to do any good. And anyway, he’s completely nuts.
How is everyone? What’s new? Has Domino still got too many fleas? Is Randy shaving yet? How are the pimples on Robin’s forehead? And what about Dorrie Bell? Everything still fit as a fiddle?
Take care,
Love, Diane
The Second Year
Dear Mom,
I can’t stand it. The second year is so much harder. Mr. Meisner is really pushing us to expand into interpretation. I don’t know how to create a character. I understand the repetition exercise, but being someone else? And everyone’s so much more