eyes thoughtful.
“Well, yes, Mom, of course she looked young. She was young. You have to remember, Rosemary’s Baby was filmed more than forty years ago. She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s been quite a while since she could play an ingenue.”
I wondered whether Mom realized that Mia Farrow is playing grandmother roles at this stage of her career. Lola probably did know this on an intellectual level, but maybe she blocked the information out of her mind. I think she would find it depressing beyond belief if she let herself dwell on it.
“Time flies,” Mom said with a heavy sigh. “I haven’t seen her on the screen very much recently.” I knew what she was thinking. If Mia Farrow was getting older, that meant she was getting older as well.
She flipped through the paper for a few moments and then tossed it aside. “All the casting notices seem to be for girls in their twenties and thirties,” she said, giving a little frown. “Well, no surprises there. That seems to be par for the course.” She pursed her lips and stared out into the sunny garden, apparently lost in thought.
“Do you have an audition today?” I spotted a script in her lap.
“Yes, it’s just a small part, but I better get cracking on it. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” She paused. “Lately, I seem to have trouble concentrating. That’s why I turned off the TV and the phone this morning.”
“I noticed.” Mom needs complete silence when she has to memorize lines. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She made a face. “There will be tons of young girls auditioning. And then there’s me. I bet I’ll be the oldest person in the room.” She heaved a little sigh.
Mom knows that Hollywood isn’t kind to “women of a certain age,” and as she says, the clock is always ticking. There’s only a small window of opportunity for them to practice their chosen craft. For every Sally Field, Meryl Streep, and Helen Mirren, there are thousands of actresses who never work in their “mature” years. The parts just dry up, and no one sends them out on auditions. They simply become invisible.
Sometimes the same thing happens to male superstars.
“The Tab Hunter story comes to mind.” Mom smiled. “You’ve heard it, right?”
I nodded. “The four stages of Hollywood stardom.” I smiled, remembering the old joke. Get me Tab Hunter. Get me a Tab Hunter type. Get me a young Tab Hunter. Who the hell is Tab Hunter?
Lark called out that the coffee was ready, and I brought out two mugs on a tray with a couple of croissants. Mom and I sat side by side, enjoying the bright Florida sunlight, the dazzling bougainvillea, and the sweet smell of magnolia drifting across the soft breeze.
Nothing bad could happen on a day like this, I thought.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Vera Mae called me on my cell around noon, just as I was getting ready to leave for the station. I had dressed casually in a pair of white capris and a sleeveless yellow blouse from Ann Taylor. I was just stuffing my cell phone in my tote bag when I realized it was vibrating. I quickly flipped the lid open, and before I could even say hello, Vera Mae’s voice raced across the line.
“Holy moley, girl, haven’t you heard the news? Are you watching channel six?”
“What’s up?” I said idly. I was doing a mental rundown of what I needed to stash in my tote: show notes, briefcase, water bottle, day planner, granola bar. I had the vague feeling I was forgetting something. Maybe hair spray? My shoulder-length auburn hair turns into a fuzzball when it’s humid, and I have to use industrial-strength products to tame it.
“What’s up? Miss Althea is dead—that’s what’s up. I thought surely you’d have heard by now.”
Althea dead? I tuned out everything except those two words. A muscle jumped in my cheek, and my head throbbed with the news. While I’d been sitting outside enjoying the sunny day with Lola, Althea Somerset
“Well, yes, Mom, of course she looked young. She was young. You have to remember, Rosemary’s Baby was filmed more than forty years ago. She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s been quite a while since she could play an ingenue.”
I wondered whether Mom realized that Mia Farrow is playing grandmother roles at this stage of her career. Lola probably did know this on an intellectual level, but maybe she blocked the information out of her mind. I think she would find it depressing beyond belief if she let herself dwell on it.
“Time flies,” Mom said with a heavy sigh. “I haven’t seen her on the screen very much recently.” I knew what she was thinking. If Mia Farrow was getting older, that meant she was getting older as well.
She flipped through the paper for a few moments and then tossed it aside. “All the casting notices seem to be for girls in their twenties and thirties,” she said, giving a little frown. “Well, no surprises there. That seems to be par for the course.” She pursed her lips and stared out into the sunny garden, apparently lost in thought.
“Do you have an audition today?” I spotted a script in her lap.
“Yes, it’s just a small part, but I better get cracking on it. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” She paused. “Lately, I seem to have trouble concentrating. That’s why I turned off the TV and the phone this morning.”
“I noticed.” Mom needs complete silence when she has to memorize lines. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She made a face. “There will be tons of young girls auditioning. And then there’s me. I bet I’ll be the oldest person in the room.” She heaved a little sigh.
Mom knows that Hollywood isn’t kind to “women of a certain age,” and as she says, the clock is always ticking. There’s only a small window of opportunity for them to practice their chosen craft. For every Sally Field, Meryl Streep, and Helen Mirren, there are thousands of actresses who never work in their “mature” years. The parts just dry up, and no one sends them out on auditions. They simply become invisible.
Sometimes the same thing happens to male superstars.
“The Tab Hunter story comes to mind.” Mom smiled. “You’ve heard it, right?”
I nodded. “The four stages of Hollywood stardom.” I smiled, remembering the old joke. Get me Tab Hunter. Get me a Tab Hunter type. Get me a young Tab Hunter. Who the hell is Tab Hunter?
Lark called out that the coffee was ready, and I brought out two mugs on a tray with a couple of croissants. Mom and I sat side by side, enjoying the bright Florida sunlight, the dazzling bougainvillea, and the sweet smell of magnolia drifting across the soft breeze.
Nothing bad could happen on a day like this, I thought.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Vera Mae called me on my cell around noon, just as I was getting ready to leave for the station. I had dressed casually in a pair of white capris and a sleeveless yellow blouse from Ann Taylor. I was just stuffing my cell phone in my tote bag when I realized it was vibrating. I quickly flipped the lid open, and before I could even say hello, Vera Mae’s voice raced across the line.
“Holy moley, girl, haven’t you heard the news? Are you watching channel six?”
“What’s up?” I said idly. I was doing a mental rundown of what I needed to stash in my tote: show notes, briefcase, water bottle, day planner, granola bar. I had the vague feeling I was forgetting something. Maybe hair spray? My shoulder-length auburn hair turns into a fuzzball when it’s humid, and I have to use industrial-strength products to tame it.
“What’s up? Miss Althea is dead—that’s what’s up. I thought surely you’d have heard by now.”
Althea dead? I tuned out everything except those two words. A muscle jumped in my cheek, and my head throbbed with the news. While I’d been sitting outside enjoying the sunny day with Lola, Althea Somerset
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