My Extraordinary Ordinary Life (17 page)

Jonny quickly morphed into one of the most powerful music moguls in the industry, and before long he was managing just about everybody who was anybody. He managed the Allman Brothers Band, and he introduced me to them when they came to New York for their very first show, at the Fillmore East. I think Jonny thought that since I was Southern and they were Southern, we might all get along. He was right. They were great guys, extremely talented, and so young they seemed fresh off the peach truck. Plus, they had good Southern manners. Gregg and I jammed a little back at my place. And as much as he liked my accent, he loved my twelve-string guitar even more.

The Fillmore was my favorite music venue in New York, and it was within walking distance from our apartment. The other hot spot was Max’s Kansas City, which I walked past all the time. Occasionally I would press my face against the glass and try to look inside. (It’s hard to look cool with your face smashed up against the glass.) Pretty soon I started hanging out with my friends at Max’s. It wasn’t too hard to get into the club itself, but it was next to impossible to get into the back room, where all the “it” people were. You either had to know someone or be really, really cute or cool. I made it back there once by accident, but had forgotten my glasses, so I couldn’t even see who the “it” people were. I did hear someone say that Mick Jagger walked by, but I missed it.

By now I was starting to feel a long way from Quitman.

I had a recurring dream in the years after my brother’s death: Late at night I’d drive the Austin Healey to the cemetery, where Robbie would be waiting for me. I’d climb over to the passenger seat and Robbie would drive us around all night. We’d talk and laugh like we always did. Before dawn, he’d pull back into the cemetery and get out of the car. As he walked away, he’d turn and put his fingers to his lips and smile.

In another dream, Robbie walked into the kitchen at home in Quitman, where the whole family greeted him with surprise.

“Robbie! Where’ve you been?”

“You forgot me!” he said.

In fact, he was as present in my life as ever. Once I was browsing in a card shop in New York, when I saw a pair of familiar hands sorting through the cards next to me. I knew those hands as well as my own—the olive-colored skin, the long fingers and wide nails. They were Robbie’s hands. I stared down at them for the longest time. I never looked up to see the face of the person they belonged to, not even when he walked out of the store.

So much was happening to me so quickly that I sometimes felt like my life was spinning out of control. I’d sit in my apartment at night, looking out the window at all the lights in the city and thinking about home. It reminded me of being stopped on the top of the Ferris wheel at the Old Settlers’ Reunion, suspended motionless in the dark, while the carnival just kept on going down below me, with all of its music and motion and noise. New York City was like that carnival; it never stopped. I was the one who needed to slow down occasionally and take a deep breath to remind myself who I was and what I was doing. Whenever New York started to overwhelm me, I knew it was time to go back home and get my bearings. I would stay for a few weeks, sometimes a few months. And when I felt like myself again, off I would go, back to the carnival.

I was experimenting with the way I looked and dressed, and Mother and Daddy never knew which Sissy would be coming home each time. One day I showed up in a micromini-dress and boots. My mom opened the door and said, “Oh, Sissy! What a nice blouse.”

“It’s a dress, Mother!”

One time, a vanload of hippie friends stopped by to visit me on their way through Texas. The counterculture hadn’t caught up with East Texas yet, and we attracted a lot of attention. My urban friends were fascinated with rural Texas and wanted to photograph everything they saw, especially the bucolic-looking cows grazing beside the road. But someone called the police to report “some strange-looking people” out in the pasture, bothering the cows. That took a little explaining, but luckily I was a local, even though I looked like a hippie, too. It certainly helped that my father, the agriculture agent, was in good standing with the local farmers.

I took my friends swimming at Lake Quitman, and, like a scene out of
Easy Rider
, some burly guys drove up in a hot rod and started yelling, “Hippies, go home!”

It embarrassed me to death that anyone would talk that way to my friends. I had told them how wonderful and friendly Texas was, and now they were being scared to death by a bunch of shirtless teenagers. I was so mad that I marched right up to the car in my bathing suit, determined to straighten things out. As I got closer, I could see that the ringleader was someone I’d gone to school with.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” I said. “Why are you being so mean to us? You know better than that!”

“Sissy Spacek?” he said in a little voice. “I’m sorry.... I didn’t know it was you.” He was normally the sweetest guy in the world. I still don’t know what came over him.

My parents always gave me plenty of space when I came home to visit, and sometimes gentle doses of good advice. My father would tell me, “Sissy, you’ll meet the same people on the way up that you meet on the way down, so act accordingly.” My mother would remind me, “We are a product of our choices.” It’s advice I’ve never forgotten. But the best part of being at home was to be caught up in the simple rhythms of my parents’ lives, how they woke up early and watched the sun come up together while they had their morning coffee, and how they enjoyed every day. After spending time in Texas, I would always come back to New York refreshed, my confidence and strength renewed, ready to tackle the next challenge.

One of our friends was a fashion photographer who took a lot of pictures of me for his portfolio. When he showed one of my head shots to his agency, they sold it to Chanel for an ad campaign. I got $25 for being the face of Chanel No. 5 that season—and since it was the only perfume my mother ever wore, I figured it was a good sign. I developed a lifelong love for that perfume.

It was the beginning and end of a short-lived career in modeling. Dovima, the former supermodel who ran the modeling department at the agency, wanted to meet me, so I showed up at her office with my guitars in tow. She took one look at my five-foot-two-and-a-half-inch self and let me down gently. “We love your pictures, but you’re much too petite,” she said. “Perhaps we can set up a meeting with the theatrical side of our agency?” And that was where I met Bill Treusch.

All the times I felt like I was spinning my wheels trying to get ahead in New York, and all the times I would call home tired and discouraged, my mother would say to me, “Sissy, as soon as you meet someone who’s smart enough to realize how talented you are, you’ll be on your way.” Bill Treusch turned out to be the person she was talking about.

The day I met Bill, everything changed. I dragged my two guitars into his office, and we talked for a long time, and then I sang and played a few songs for him. Before I knew it, we were having dinner together and meeting some of his other clients and going to the theater. We just clicked from the first moment we met. He believed in me from the start and right away began sending me up for auditions. I only remember Bill being at Dovima’s agency for a short while. He moved into an office in the small yellow house on East 30th Street where Marion Dougherty had her casting agency. Marion was amazingly talented, one of the most highly regarded and successful casting directors in New York. Bill and Marion gave me the professional seal of approval that I needed to get a leg up in the business.

Bill had a warm smile, and he always wore a crisp white shirt. He was an insatiable reader, and he saw every play in New York and every movie. He didn’t just
appreciate
film and theater; he was a huge fan, and he loved artists. He made his clients feel like they were special, brilliant, undeniable. I never dreamed I would be invited to join such an exclusive club. Through the years he represented Christopher Walken, Eric Roberts, Carol Kane, Melanie Mayron, Mary Beth Hurt, John Heard, and Diane Keaton.

I used to hang out at the offices on 30th Street. It was like visiting a favorite relative’s house. The parlor was warm and cozy and filled with antiques. And wherever Bill was, I always felt welcome.

One afternoon I was visiting with Bill when Marion Dougherty popped her head out of her office and said, “Sissy, come on in and meet Bob.”

Bob? I walked in and saw her standing next to Robert Redford. I was so discombobulated that I shook his hand and said, “Hello, Bobert.” He laughed out loud.

That old saying “the journey’s the thing” is true. When I met Bill Treusch, mine took a positive turn. I finally felt like I was heading in the right direction, my course was set. It was Bill who suggested that I might try acting.

Rip and Gerry had both studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, so I decided to take some classes at the Lee Strasberg Theatre and Film Institute near Union Square. The closest I ever got to Lee Strasberg himself was riding up in the elevator with him on my way to class. The technique taught there is known as Method acting, which boils down to using your own life experiences to bring truth to the characters you play. You learn to relax, concentrate, call up specific memories and the emotions they bring, then impose them on the thoughts and actions of your character—a technique called substitution.

I admit that I was more than a little intimidated in class. Everybody seemed so intense and so, well,
urban.
I imagined they had come from broken homes, or had been to reform school, or had some other traumatic personal history to dig into for their exercises. I was a former majorette from a loving, stable family. What kind of angst could I bring to the table?

Of course, I eventually realized that I had my own private stockpile of experiences, that cigar box of secrets (which by now was a trunkful) I could draw on to bring life to my characters. And in mining them for insight, I discovered the beginnings of a simple theory that would guide my work: To be an actor, you have to live a life. If you want your work to be real, you have to be a real person yourself. I began to understand that the art forms that excited me most were those that illuminated the human condition, explored our shared experience, and connected us in some way. What I loved most about performing music was the way the audience was
right there with me
, feeling what I was feeling. It reminded me of the way twilight feels, shimmery and soft, when the day and the night blend together and envelop you. With music, I could conjure up that magic hour whenever I wanted. And now I could see how acting could create that same kind of connection by weaving my own life and experiences into what I was doing.

One of the most intriguing exercises I learned from my short time at the Strasberg Institute is using “sense memory” to create the emotional state of the character. It’s a pretty simple technique. If your character is happy, you focus on a sensation that has brought you happiness: the taste of a fresh peach, or the feel of warm sunshine on your skin at the beach. Every actor uses something different to help conjure certain emotions. I’ve learned a great deal about process from other actors. When I worked with Diane Keaton, she listened to music. Jessica Lange used scents. When I was working with Anne Bancroft on
’Night, Mother
, I noticed that she would pull a small, folded-up piece of paper out of her pocket just before an emotional scene. She would quietly read whatever she had written there, then carefully refold the note and tuck it away. I’ve always been fascinated by the processes of different actors, and I’ve observed that women are much more willing to share them than men. Male actors tend to keep their process secret, like a favorite fishing hole.

As much as I got out of my time at the Strasberg Institute, I can’t claim to be a “trained” Method actor. I didn’t even stay long enough to graduate from exercise classes to scene work. And because I had never worked before I studied there, I had no idea how I would use what I learned. When I did start working and was able to apply those simple techniques, I realized just how amazing they are. But, honestly, I think I learned as much about acting on my way to and from the Institute as I did in class. The sketchy characters I saw along 14th Street late at night gave me enough material for a lifetime.

I lived with Meryl Feldman in the 19th Street apartment for almost two years. When she moved out to live with Kenny Laguna, Alice Passman moved in. Alice worked in the fashion district and was going to night school to become a speech therapist until she met me and my friends. She ended up working for Alice Cooper and going to acting school.

Unfortunately, Meryl’s wonderful furniture moved out with her. But Alice and I filled the place up with things we would find left out in the trash on Park Avenue, like an old church pew and abandoned table lamps. Ours was the original shabby chic apartment.

Alice was a wonderful girl with a great pair of legs. If you walked into a party with her and she had on her favorite miniskirt, you became suddenly invisible. She was also very smart and funny. One of her dates was a friend of Woody Allen’s. They were having dinner one night when Woody joined them. Afterward, they wanted to get some dessert, but everywhere they stopped, people kept bothering Woody for autographs. So Alice offered to take them back to our apartment so they could have some peace.

I was in my pajamas when Alice called to tell me someone was coming over.

“Oh, Alice, I’m already asleep,” I moaned.

“It’s Woody Allen.”

“No problem! Just give me a minute.”

I joined them for coffee, expecting to be entertained by the famous comedian. But Woody was quiet and serious, and all he talked about was the recent breakup with his ex-wife. Alice and I looked at each other, wondering:
When is he going to start being funny?

I couldn’t take it any longer, and I began to crack jokes and tell funny stories. I noticed Woody checking his watch. Alice tells me I was charming, but I wonder if I didn’t scare Woody off. As it turned out, Alice played a bit part in
Annie Hall
after she turned to acting. And I get to tell the story of the night I was funnier than Woody Allen.