Dancing in the Light (21 page)

We often spoke of literature being abundant in expressing relationships of love, hate, familial conflict, and fundamentally profound feelings of loneliness, jealousy, power, greed, helplessness, and so on. We felt that great literature was epic because it was really about karma. We believed the experience of life itself was only about working out those conflicts within ourselves, using other human souls as the catalyst.

So, for example, we believed each love affair we experience has its purpose—its reasons for occurring. And on a soul level, we
know
that. The chemistry that draws us to someone is really the memory of having experienced them before, and understanding that there are unresolved areas that need to be concluded.

Our love affair validated that truth very clearly in our view. But as we found ourselves caught up in the throes of the joyful conflict of loving male-female embattlement, we often forgot the fundamental mystique of our attraction in the first place. On the other hand, perhaps living completely in the
now
was the only way we could work out our problems together. In the end, the problems were not about each other. They were about
ourselves
, as I believe all conflicts are.

What fascinated each of us more than anything was the undeniable truth that our relationship was analogous to the conflicts that Russians and Americans were experiencing with each other on a global level. Our relationship was a microcosm of those misunderstandings and cultural differences. But more than that, each of us experienced the conflicts of the male and female energy existent in
each
of us.

Let me begin with our initial meeting.

I was frantically winding up making a movie when actor Jon Voight called and insisted that I see a work by a Russian filmmaker, a friend of his whom I will call Vassily Okhlopkhov-Medvedjatnikov (his real name was just as complicated). Jon said the film was long but brilliant.

I pleaded exhaustion and said I wasn’t interested in a ponderous Russian film.

Jon said, “I know, but you’ll see something deeply moving. Come. I want you to meet Vassy. Please, do it for me.”

On that basis, I went.

Driving along the freeway toward the San Fernando Valley, I should have realized what was about
to happen as I relaxed my mind after the insanity of the movie set. I tried to picture what this Russian filmmaker could possibly be like. I had known many Russians when I was in the ballet; I was familiar with and amused by the colorful explosiveness that underlined their lives, and attracted to the passion and deeply felt sensitivity they expressed in their creative arts.

A picture of the Russian director swam into my mind as I drove. I was bemused by the clear definition of the image. Outrageous, I thought to myself.

The figure I imagined was very clear. He was a tall, lean, rather tawny-skinned man with high Mongolian cheekbones and deep brown, fawnlike, almost almond-shaped eyes. He was smiling with a broad, full-toothed grin revealing white teeth, an impressive array engineered to present “perfect imperfection.” Why such a sophisticated dental allusion occurred to me, I couldn’t imagine. This imposing-looking imaginary male wore a brown leather jacket over loose-fitting blue jeans which were not snug because his hips were slim. In my head I saw him standing in front of my car as I was directed to projection room I. Brown hair crept over the collar of the leather jacket and every so often he swept hair back from his forehead with a circular movement.

All of this flashed in my mind as I negotiated the evening traffic on the freeway.

I pulled up to the gate at Universal and asked where the screening of the Russian film was because I couldn’t remember the man’s name. The cop at the gate said projection room 1! A coincidence, I thought to myself.

I rounded the alley looking for it when there in the street in front of my car was a tall, lean man in a brown leather jacket and loose-fitting blue jeans. He was obviously standing in wait for someone. He looked exactly like the man I had “imagined.” I could see the high-cheekboned structure of his head, although aviator dark glasses concealed the eyes.
Impatiently, with a curved motion, he swept his fingers through his hair. I wondered what the hell was going on while emerging nonchalantly from the car.

He rushed to help me out of it, whipping off his glasses as though he wanted a clearer look at me. I thanked him and looked directly into his eyes. I had the definite feeling that I knew him.

“Mrs. MacLaine?” he asked in that way that foreigners do when they’re not really sure how to address one.

“Hello,” I answered. “I hope I’m not late, but we shot late.”

“No worry,” he said. “Thank you for coming. People inside are ready. I am director of movie.”

“Yes, I know,” I answered, realizing as I spoke that he even
sounded
familiar. “I’m hungry. Is there some food around?”

“Of course,” he said, and with a flourish like a general he commanded a gofer to “bring me whatever is available.” Jon had told me the man was very Russian, whatever that might mean. I wondered how he had gotten permission to come and work in the U.S.

He ushered me into the projection room as though I were the Queen of England and he the Prince Consort. I was trying to remember his name. No matter. I wouldn’t have to introduce him to anyone. I was the guest, and I liked him immediately. His flair for commanding tickled me.

Once inside the screening room, he walked back to the chair with the sound controls and waited for me to take a seat somewhere. I, without hesitation, walked back over to him and said, “I want to sit beside you.” He seemed clearly delighted. Then he rose and greeted everyone in charmingly halting Russianese English, told us a little about the making of the film (which had taken two and a half years and ran three and a half hours), sat down, and directed the projectionist to begin.

The lights went down. I pulled out my cigarettes and he, without asking, reached over and took one. He smoked it compulsively as people who don’t often smoke do. Every once in a while, as the film unfolded, he would smoke and cough and then clear his throat as though it were all a mistake.

The credits told me his name once again. Medvedjatnikov. I said it over in my mind, trying to rehearse it so I wouldn’t forget. And the film that unfolded assured me that Jon had been right. It was indeed brilliant. It was grand, personal, sweepingly moving, dramatic, and in parts, funny and strangely mystical.

But what was really weird—and to this day I cannot accurately describe my reaction to it—was that the leading lady, whose name I still can’t remember, looked exactly like me. It was more than uncanny. It was downright disturbing. Not only did she repeat the image I had of myself, but she moved as I imagine I move! Her facial expressions and way of cocking her head when she was unsure of herself made me feel as I watched her that I was invading my own privacy. It was more than watching a reflection of myself.

When the lights came up, I turned to face Medvedjatnikov. He had smoked the last of my cigarettes. I tried to find a diplomatic way of asking about my screen image, but he didn’t even wait for a question.

“You see, Sheerlee,” he began, rolling my name out with his altogether charming accent, “I have been trying to contact you for twelve years. Excuse me, but you have been as an obsession for me. I don’t know why. Therefore all my leading women are looking as you.
All.”

He broke out in a wide, dazzling grin. I was equally flattened and flattered. I had heard of put-ons, come-ons, lead-ons before, but this one headed the list. I shut my mouth.

“Twelve years?” I repeated. Repetition is useful
when you can’t find anything to say and need time to sort things out.

“That is true,” said Medvedjatnikov. “Ask any of my friends who perhaps you will come to know.”

Jesus, he didn’t waste any time.

“Yes, well,” I murmured, “your film is quite wonderful. What do you plan to do with it?”

“I want American distributor. Is difficult. Who wants to see Russian film? But I’m told is like Russian
Roots.
Is that not true?”

Yes, he was right. The film traced the life of a Russian village in Siberia from the turn of the century, through both world wars, and into the 1970s, exploring the lives and feelings of the village people as they found themselves thrust into the technological future of revolutionary Russia. It was not particularly propagandistic. On the contrary, it was human and touching in that it expressed the bewilderment of the villagers as they found themselves pummeled and shaken by their country’s revolution and entry into the events of the world.

As I talked with Medvedjatnikov about the film, I realized I was hearing a point of view about Russia that I had not been exposed to before.

“And,” I said, “have you left Russia and brought your film with you?”

“Left Russia?” He was rather astonished. “Never. It is my country. I am Russian. I am not defector. I am not even dissident. I am filmmaker who wants to be free to make films in West.”

I looked at him suspiciously. How could anyone do that?

“I will meet with immigration people next week for reapplication of visa—H-l visa—and soon, God’s willing, all will be in order.”

I had the clear impression that whatever needed to be maneuvered he would accomplish, simply because of the certainty of his boundless, commanding vitality.

“Well, why are you able to travel in and out of the Soviet Union?” I asked. “Isn’t that quite unusual?”

“Unusual maybe, but not illegal. Besides,” he went on, “I have French wife and, therefore, half-French daughter. Authorities cannot prevent me from seeing family in France. And I have studied Russian constitution as lawyer and, understanding what you call fine print, I simply follow the possibilities. Maybe not even unusual. Many people who have married foreigners can leave Russia. Of course, for me is more difficult because I am very well known in my country. But I am persistent and, God’s willing, I will succeed. I would like to direct you.”

He caught me in the middle or a yawn which I was trying to cover up. I was very curious and very tired.

He smiled.

“You are free for dinner?” he asked. “Of course, your shooting schedule is exhausting. But could you make some time for me? It has been a long time for me to finally contact you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I have an early call in the morning. We are nearly finished. And I have a difficult scene tomorrow. This film has not been the easiest one I’ve made. So maybe some other time.”

“Unfortunately, I am leaving for Paris on the weekend. Perhaps tomorrow night?”

He flashed that full-toothed smile again.

“Tomorrow night?” I considered.

“If you please, yes. Please.”

His man-child approach combined with his over weaning confidence amused me.

“Okay,” I said, realizing I was already into something unusual up to my ankles. I knew myself well enough to know I was interested in getting in up to my neck. Why not, I thought. So I added, “Where?”

“I am living Chateau Marmont. I will be waiting in lobby at eight o’clock?”

“Okay.”

Medvedjatnikov laughed and clapped his hands
with childish joy. Then he announced in a throaty voice, “I am Vassy. Please call me Vassy. Much easier. You make me happy.” He gave the impression that he could barely keep both feet on the ground.

My God, I thought. I had had some experience with love affairs, but I could see right away that if I
let
this develop, it was going to be a whole other order of energy.

I put on my driving glasses to effect a shield between his eyes and mine as he led me to the car.

“Sheerlee,” he said, smiling broadly, “you are wonderful person. I am so
happy.
And so
happy
that you loved my film so
much.”

His voice was sincere and husky—not whiskey husky, I thought, but probably vodka husky. And I also had the impression that he was not unused to screaming.

I picked up Vassy in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont the following night. He wore the same blue jeans minus his leather jacket. In its place was a jacket made out of soft blue denim material.

He smiled at my entrance and stood up formally, his torso leaning slightly forward over his hips.

“Thank you, Sheerlee,” he said with that well-schooled, boyish charm which I was sure was just as genuine as it was calculated. “You are so sweet because I know you are so busy with your filming.”

“Yes,” I said, “well, never mind. I am happy to tell you more of what I think of your film and maybe suggest a mode of distribution.”

His dazzling smile dissolved to professional seriousness.

“Yes,” he said, “may we discuss?”

I nodded.

“And where would you prefer eat?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “it’s up to you.”

“I have prepared reservations at a small French restaurant. We take car and then walk.”

We slid into my rented car, which he eyed carefully.

“You like Datsun?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what make this is, frankly,” I answered. “I just know it has four wheels and gets me where I want to go. I gave up owning cars years ago. I travel so much they always ended up going on the blink.”

“Blink?” he said. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

He directed me to park near a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard with a sign so small it was hardly visible outside. There was a menu, though, that didn’t include prices. He seemed to know his way around Hollywood.

“So, how long have you been here?” I asked, as we walked into the restaurant, which had palm trees swaying over a small fountain.

“I was here for three months,” he answered with great assurance, bowing to the waiter who had recognized me and rushed right up.

“I am working with big major studio—Universal. I like very much people at Universal. Very nice and they believe in me.”

“Great,” I said, meaning it, and wondering at the same time how Universal intended to express their confidence in this startling Russian.