Read Online It's All In the Playing by Shirley Maclaine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shirley Maclaine
Ads: Link
course, didn’t know what to expect.
Bob Butler seemed quite comfortable on the taping floor. I wondered how he’d be with a film crew instead. He directed from the booth, and fairly soon Kevin became accustomed to the voice above him instead of an actual face in front of him.
Everyone was set. Kevin went through some motions with his hat and coat, since he had an entrance to make through my door in Malibu. It was funny and dear to observe the vanity of even so unassuming an individual as a medium who allowed other beings to use his body without regard for how it looked.
Bob gave the countdown to tape rolling and then we began. Kevin walked through the door and began his lines. He was nervous. I in turn became immediately supportive. With my prompting he acted out his lines. He told “Shirley” what to expect, explaining that he was really acting as a telephone for disincarnate beings to speak through. I snuck a peek at the dumbfounded crew. No one blinked. (Hollywood crews have seen it all.)
Then I forgot my lines. Someone handed me a script. By now I was definitely out of character.
Kevin went into trance, as per script. The crew didn’t know what was going on. They waited. A few of them adjusted the lights.
John of Zebedee came through and said, “Hail. Greetings. State purpose of gathering.”
Several members of the crew very gently backed up. I chuckled to myself. John proceeded to play his lines letter-perfect—not with any great dramatic flair, mind you, but with precision. When he paused and said, “Pause. There is another entity desiring to speak,” there wasanother almost palpable reaction from the crew. I heard one of them murmur, “Should this guy get the Academy Award or is this real?” I found myself whipping between playing the scene and watching the crew react to an honest-to-God channeling. It was really difficult for me to get the concentration I needed.
Tom McPherson, in all the glory of his Irish brogue, came through. “Tip o’ the hat to you,” he began and proceeded to introduce himself and launch into his portion of the scene. He was as letter-perfect as John. Kevin had had trouble remembering his lines—the entities had no problem. “Earth plane anxiety,” Tom would explain later. “When the director yells the word action, the aura of every person on the set goes muddy. What are they so worried about? All of life is a movie, not just the one you’re making.” Sure, Tom, and we all wear IT’S ONLY A MOVIE buttons, too.
Tom then proceeded to pad his part a little by turning to the crew and saying, “I’d like to encourage all of you out there to enjoy having a body. I haven’t had one for four hundred years. I miss it. When you’re floatin’ around up here you’re like a saint or somethin’. All you can be is good, gooder, and goodest.” Some of the crew laughed.
Tom explained his identity per script, Irish pickpocket and all. The crew gaped. How could a pickpocket be a spiritual guide? “He’s working off his karma,” said one of the guys with long hair and an earring. I made a note of his identity—we should definitely take him to Peru, I thought.
We were well into the scene when Tom suddenly reached over and took my hands. I felt a surge of warm, almost liquid, electricity go up my arms and through me.
“Would you like to do an Irish jig now, lassie?”
“Oh,” I said, startled and completely out of character.
“Well,” Tom went on, “help an old pickpocket tohis feet. You have an advantage over me up here. Just get me to my feet and I’ll be fine, don’t ya know.”
I helped Tom to his feet. He looked down.
“Good floor,” he said. “It’s not the hardwood deck of shipboard, but it’ll do.”
With that, Tom began to direct me in an Irish jig. He held my hands loosely and told me about the incarnations we had had together as pirates. I wondered how much karma he would have to work off before he was done with it.
I was laughing as Tom
Bob Butler seemed quite comfortable on the taping floor. I wondered how he’d be with a film crew instead. He directed from the booth, and fairly soon Kevin became accustomed to the voice above him instead of an actual face in front of him.
Everyone was set. Kevin went through some motions with his hat and coat, since he had an entrance to make through my door in Malibu. It was funny and dear to observe the vanity of even so unassuming an individual as a medium who allowed other beings to use his body without regard for how it looked.
Bob gave the countdown to tape rolling and then we began. Kevin walked through the door and began his lines. He was nervous. I in turn became immediately supportive. With my prompting he acted out his lines. He told “Shirley” what to expect, explaining that he was really acting as a telephone for disincarnate beings to speak through. I snuck a peek at the dumbfounded crew. No one blinked. (Hollywood crews have seen it all.)
Then I forgot my lines. Someone handed me a script. By now I was definitely out of character.
Kevin went into trance, as per script. The crew didn’t know what was going on. They waited. A few of them adjusted the lights.
John of Zebedee came through and said, “Hail. Greetings. State purpose of gathering.”
Several members of the crew very gently backed up. I chuckled to myself. John proceeded to play his lines letter-perfect—not with any great dramatic flair, mind you, but with precision. When he paused and said, “Pause. There is another entity desiring to speak,” there wasanother almost palpable reaction from the crew. I heard one of them murmur, “Should this guy get the Academy Award or is this real?” I found myself whipping between playing the scene and watching the crew react to an honest-to-God channeling. It was really difficult for me to get the concentration I needed.
Tom McPherson, in all the glory of his Irish brogue, came through. “Tip o’ the hat to you,” he began and proceeded to introduce himself and launch into his portion of the scene. He was as letter-perfect as John. Kevin had had trouble remembering his lines—the entities had no problem. “Earth plane anxiety,” Tom would explain later. “When the director yells the word action, the aura of every person on the set goes muddy. What are they so worried about? All of life is a movie, not just the one you’re making.” Sure, Tom, and we all wear IT’S ONLY A MOVIE buttons, too.
Tom then proceeded to pad his part a little by turning to the crew and saying, “I’d like to encourage all of you out there to enjoy having a body. I haven’t had one for four hundred years. I miss it. When you’re floatin’ around up here you’re like a saint or somethin’. All you can be is good, gooder, and goodest.” Some of the crew laughed.
Tom explained his identity per script, Irish pickpocket and all. The crew gaped. How could a pickpocket be a spiritual guide? “He’s working off his karma,” said one of the guys with long hair and an earring. I made a note of his identity—we should definitely take him to Peru, I thought.
We were well into the scene when Tom suddenly reached over and took my hands. I felt a surge of warm, almost liquid, electricity go up my arms and through me.
“Would you like to do an Irish jig now, lassie?”
“Oh,” I said, startled and completely out of character.
“Well,” Tom went on, “help an old pickpocket tohis feet. You have an advantage over me up here. Just get me to my feet and I’ll be fine, don’t ya know.”
I helped Tom to his feet. He looked down.
“Good floor,” he said. “It’s not the hardwood deck of shipboard, but it’ll do.”
With that, Tom began to direct me in an Irish jig. He held my hands loosely and told me about the incarnations we had had together as pirates. I wondered how much karma he would have to work off before he was done with it.
I was laughing as Tom
Similar Books
