Read Online I’m Over All That by Shirley Maclaine - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Maclaine
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all the Hoboken rules and obey them—even though he certainly didn’t.
Those of us in show business sometimes call people who are not in show business “civilians” because they don’t understand what it takes to be loved by being “really” real. If we’re good at it, we usually can make a civilian believe anything we want them to believe.
From the time we were very young, we non-civilians needed to be loved more than most. We needed to be acknowledged and noticed because we desperately felt we had something valuable to say. So with each of us non-civilian, creative, insecure, yet demandingly talented people there is a divalike environment around us charged with edgy ideas, which lead the civilians to water but never let them drink. We tease, cajole, propagandize, and promise to bring the heart and soul of the human to the screen or stage to be understood and related to. We think we understand the civilian world, but the truth is we gave that up long ago. At the same time we divas say we reflect the civilians back to themselves.
How can we still be one of them when we are profiting (and suffering from!) the vicissitudes of fame? Once we become famous there is only the memory of the struggle. We never want to be un-famous again.
My orientation has been somewhat different because I labored for so many years as a dancer. Dancers aren’t as interested in fame as much as they are determined to be good team players. Dancers are not so caught up in our own identities except insofar as how it enables us to perform without getting hurt. Dancers are creative soldiers. If I were in a foxhole, I’d want a dancer with me—they think fast, are survival-oriented, able to sacrifice themselves, and will save the team. Dancers are rarely divas (Nureyev excepting). I don’t know why opera stars are divas; maybe it’s something to do with their throats and cold air. Dancers will dance on top of snow in a blizzard if told it’s necessary.
The reason I became a famous person—an individual—is because I was never a very good dancer. Bob Fosse used to say I was wrong about that—but then, he wasn’t a very good dancer either. He and I were thinkers who moved around a lot. And if someone else did something good, we’d steal it and make it ours.
All of that is Broadway folklore now, but to me it is ever-present. The famous “Steam Heat” dance number choreographed by Bob Fosse has moves inspired by various MGM movie musicals, which Fosse may or may not have “borrowed” and then made into a classic all its own. It was (and is) performed in black tuxedos and black derbies. It usually gets a standing ovation.
So often I’ve tried to describe what it feels like to command a live audience from the stage. There’s no feeling in the world that is more satisfying. And no feeling is more devastating than when it falls flat and bores the audience. Las Vegas was my best teacher when I was developing my one-woman show. It was simple. If I heard ice tinkling in glasses, I knew I was boring them.
Yes, we are all involved in the world where our ultimate goal is to show truth. When a politician gives a magnificently moving speech, he is actually a consummate actor who had a consummate writer preparing his material, so squaring the circle of what moves and inspires humanity. It’s the elements of show business that make a winner in politics.
I have, in my humble opinion, become something of a connoisseur of reality in my life because I’ve been privileged to experience so many points of view through traveling and my relationships with such a wide range of people. I’m usually right about the authenticity of a person’s presentation of themselves. Show business is a cruel educator in that department. When I’ve worked with brilliant actors who seem so real when they act a part, I’ve come to realize that underneath they are real to themselves.
I’m Not Over Vanity, But I’m Trying
L et’s face it, vanity is as old as the
Those of us in show business sometimes call people who are not in show business “civilians” because they don’t understand what it takes to be loved by being “really” real. If we’re good at it, we usually can make a civilian believe anything we want them to believe.
From the time we were very young, we non-civilians needed to be loved more than most. We needed to be acknowledged and noticed because we desperately felt we had something valuable to say. So with each of us non-civilian, creative, insecure, yet demandingly talented people there is a divalike environment around us charged with edgy ideas, which lead the civilians to water but never let them drink. We tease, cajole, propagandize, and promise to bring the heart and soul of the human to the screen or stage to be understood and related to. We think we understand the civilian world, but the truth is we gave that up long ago. At the same time we divas say we reflect the civilians back to themselves.
How can we still be one of them when we are profiting (and suffering from!) the vicissitudes of fame? Once we become famous there is only the memory of the struggle. We never want to be un-famous again.
My orientation has been somewhat different because I labored for so many years as a dancer. Dancers aren’t as interested in fame as much as they are determined to be good team players. Dancers are not so caught up in our own identities except insofar as how it enables us to perform without getting hurt. Dancers are creative soldiers. If I were in a foxhole, I’d want a dancer with me—they think fast, are survival-oriented, able to sacrifice themselves, and will save the team. Dancers are rarely divas (Nureyev excepting). I don’t know why opera stars are divas; maybe it’s something to do with their throats and cold air. Dancers will dance on top of snow in a blizzard if told it’s necessary.
The reason I became a famous person—an individual—is because I was never a very good dancer. Bob Fosse used to say I was wrong about that—but then, he wasn’t a very good dancer either. He and I were thinkers who moved around a lot. And if someone else did something good, we’d steal it and make it ours.
All of that is Broadway folklore now, but to me it is ever-present. The famous “Steam Heat” dance number choreographed by Bob Fosse has moves inspired by various MGM movie musicals, which Fosse may or may not have “borrowed” and then made into a classic all its own. It was (and is) performed in black tuxedos and black derbies. It usually gets a standing ovation.
So often I’ve tried to describe what it feels like to command a live audience from the stage. There’s no feeling in the world that is more satisfying. And no feeling is more devastating than when it falls flat and bores the audience. Las Vegas was my best teacher when I was developing my one-woman show. It was simple. If I heard ice tinkling in glasses, I knew I was boring them.
Yes, we are all involved in the world where our ultimate goal is to show truth. When a politician gives a magnificently moving speech, he is actually a consummate actor who had a consummate writer preparing his material, so squaring the circle of what moves and inspires humanity. It’s the elements of show business that make a winner in politics.
I have, in my humble opinion, become something of a connoisseur of reality in my life because I’ve been privileged to experience so many points of view through traveling and my relationships with such a wide range of people. I’m usually right about the authenticity of a person’s presentation of themselves. Show business is a cruel educator in that department. When I’ve worked with brilliant actors who seem so real when they act a part, I’ve come to realize that underneath they are real to themselves.
I’m Not Over Vanity, But I’m Trying
L et’s face it, vanity is as old as the
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