Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [124]
At home, the mail had brought another notice from the bank. I was behind on the mortgage and I had thirty days to catch up, or . . . no more house. I took a deep breath and tried not to let Jennifer see my worry, but she was already on her way out the door to join some friends on the beach.
I’d bought this house in the Malibu Colony because I urgently wanted a safe, happy environment for Jennifer to grow up in, and she loved it. Her school was close by, and there was the beach, the sun, the fresh sea air, and lots of kids on the beach for her to play with. The thought of losing the house made my heart sink.
It was now about five years after the divorce and my meltdown. Since then, I’d made steady progress. I had stirred back to life, and little by little, so had my career. It started one day, in late 1968, when I was offered a screen test for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Later on the same day, Universal Studios offered me a four-picture deal.
Bob & Carol was a movie about two couples who try their best to navigate the sexual revolution by overcoming such traditional hang-ups as, well, marital fidelity. The script was brilliant and I found the premise to be fascinatingly perverse, maybe because it was about people trying to find happiness in freedom from the borders of marriage, when I’d driven myself to madness while trying to stay safely inside them. The film reflected the prevailing anxiety about so-called “free love,” which not only wasn’t free but in the story came with quite a hefty emotional price tag. Paul Mazursky had directed, and it co-starred Natalie Wood, Robert Culp, and Elliott Gould.
It was hard to turn down a four-picture deal—it meant getting to work right away—but something told me I needed to play Alice.
“A bird in the hand, Dyan,” my agent said.
“How do you know the bird in your hand won’t just peck a hole in it?” I asked.
“With a big six-figure deal, you can have your hand sewn up and the bird stuffed,” my agent said.
I stuck to my guns and screen-tested for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. My agent thought I was crazy, naturally. But being true to my creative standards paid off in its own way. I got an Oscar nomination for best supporting actress, and that led to a quick succession of roles that to me were exciting, challenging, and fulfilling. That triumph did a lot to restore my confidence in my own judgment. I was in demand.
Maybe I’d gotten spoiled, but then I’d always been particular about the characters I played. But after a back-to-back succession of movies, I stopped coming across roles that appealed to me. Many times, the characters were too shallow, too weak, or just didn’t require much but showing up and being the Girl. I told my agent I only wanted to do parts that were uplifting to women. The problem was, there just weren’t very many of them.
Auditions are kind of like parties; after you turn down so many invitations, they stop inviting you. Now I was paying the price for being so particular, and my finances were a disaster. I’d never worried much about money; I’d been working consistently for several years, Jennifer’s school and basic needs were taken care of, and I always operated on faith that one thing or another would turn up. I didn’t want to have to go to anyone for money.
For the first time in a long while, I felt myself being tugged back into a morass. For five years, I’d strived and strived and I’d made progress. Great progress, and not just with my career; I’d climbed out of the deep hole I’d fallen into mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
I’d called Lily soon after I got out of the mental ward. What I’d been through was beyond my understanding. Here I’d always been an independent, spirited woman, and the quivering,