PicoBlog

Barbara Baxley was one of the first actresses I met when I moved to New York in 1989 to begin work on what became Follies of God. In my copy of Who’s Who in the Theatre, Baxley provided both her address and her home telephone number, and I utilized both to ask her for an interview. Barbara and I spent many days together, and she was unafraid of honesty. Barbara was also bold in telling me how wrong I was, and she disabused me of many things I thought I knew from reading biographies and listening to gossip.

Barbara adored Robert Altman, with whom she first worked in television, and she told everyone how good he was. Barbara’s best role for Altman was in Nashville, and we had several conversations about that film.

Here are excerpts from some conversations that took place in November of 1989.

There are good directors, and I’ve been helped by some of them. [Elia] Kazan was a great director, but my experiences with him didn’t provide the great revelations that others had. Don’t ask me why. I mean, we got along; we worked well. But there were no conferences in corners that led to my having some deep understanding of my character or the play. He did not, to quote Kim Hunter, ‘elevate’ me. Robert Altman elevated me, and I think I’m safe in saying that he elevated most of the actors he worked with.

One thing I need to correct: You are so fucking wrong about Nashville being improvised. Improvisation played a large part in that film, but I’m tired of Joan [Tewkesbury'] being undermined—no, devalued==for her part in that movie. Look, Altman is a genius, but you’ve got to throw your paint on a canvas for your work to be seen, and Joan provided the canvas. Bob and the actors got together and mixed the paints and then Bob and Joan decided which colors landed and where.

Joan’s script was the contract, and it had four corners. When I got the script, Bob told me it was a starting point, and he invited my contributions. So did Joan. What did I know about Pearl? She was the strength behind and beneath Haven [Henry Gibson]; she was a sort of First Lady of Nashville; she was an alcoholic; she was one of the few liberals in Nashville, which is a conservative city, and the music industry is still resistant to change. I added that she was an outsider, from Stockton, my hometown, and I came up with the John and Robert Kennedy reference. I wanted to imagine Pearl believing in him, and I remember Tennessee [Williams] showing me photographs of people all across the country lined up to wave, salute, or just stand as the train carrying his body passed. [The photographer was Paul Fusco.] Tennessee wanted to write a play, a series of monologues, about what people were thinking on those hills and levees and streets, in the heat. Some were devastated; some were delighted, because they hated the Kennedys; others were just confused at what was happening to their country. Nothing happened with that play, but I met with Tennessee, and I remembered those talks, and I came up with Pearl’s story. Bob and Joan approved. It went in.

Bob didn’t approve of unhappiness on the set, unless it was related to not getting it right. I don’t remember any arguments or negative comments. I was guilty of looking at some of the younger actors and thinking they weren’t very good or developed, but I didn’t say anything, but I can’t hide what I’m thinking, and Bob would look at me and give me a look, like a parent, and I got it together. Everyone was invited to give to their characters. I saw Lily [Tomlin] making constant notes. She and Bob talked a lot. Well, we all talked to Bob a lot. Bob invited conversation, and I’m telling you that not a lot of directors are like that. Bob gave us freedom. He wanted me, Barbara Harris, Lily, Henry, everyone to just be free, to be daring. Bigness. Bob wanted bigness. He could turn down burners that were overheated, but he hated to try to bring heat to a cold actor or a cold scene.

I’m also tired of people trashing Scottie Bushnell. There is a Bob Altman because there is a Scottie Bushnell. Maybe it’s just the usual bullshit that women have poured on them, but I get calls from writers who want to write about Bob, and they have their agendas, and it’s always negative or dubious about Scottie. Bob is happy staying up late at night, talking, talking, and smoking pot, and it’s all interesting, but someone has to get the fucking film made, the schedules made, the payroll in order, and Scottie does that. Did that, as I saw it.

I don’t talk to writers any longer who want to know about Bob. I can tell pretty soon that they have an idea—a set idea—about Bob, and all the questions are positioned to solidify that idea. I can tell that they’re going to take what I say and cut it and shape it to fit how they choose, so I tell off a lot of writers. Bob’s attitude is always, Do what you want. The bastards are going to write something anyway, so what are you going to do? I just ignore them.

Gena Rowlands also gets mad when people think her films with John [Cassavetes] are improvised. She recognizes, as we all do, the compliment in that charge, but it’s just bullshit. I think—I don’t know—that John allows his actors to grow within the parameters, the contract, of the script, and then that is what gets filmed. If there was improvisation in Nashville, it was a word or two, a phrase. I’m talking about when the cameras were running. Now, earlier, as we talked and read and prepared, we threw everything on that canvas. Too much. Then we edited. But then it became part of the script. Joan’s script.

Few things turned Bob on as much as watching and helping everyone realize the fullness of their character. He took joy in watching people do better than they ever dreamed. Those actors came from so many different backgrounds, and Bob could work with all of them. I marvel at his understanding at how actors work and think. He really dug how actors did their work, and he never questioned anyone. He just applauded or improved the results. Look at Geraldine Chaplin. I don’t know what her training is, but what she gave was pure Method. As I was taught it, and understand it. She studied and she analyzed, and she came up with this woman, this character, and there was so much creativity and intelligence burning off of her. Barbara Harris is one of the greatest talents we’ve ever had, and Bob just turned her loose. Barbara had the freedom, as we all did, to dress and think as we saw fit. No anatomy or mentality was imposed on us. We brought that ourselves.

Look at Ronee Blakley. I had never heard of her. Who was she? My God, that performance is what we all were striving to create at the [Actors] Studio. A pure stream of truth flowed through and out of her. I’m going to say this, and I don't want to exclude anybody or shit on anybody, but, My God, you've got three extraordinary women doing incredible work in that one film. For them alone, watch it over and over and learn. Lily, Barbara Harris, and Ronee Blakley, who came out of nowhere and flew to the moon. Everyone excelled because of Bob. Everyone reached the top of their talents. It was a real drag for that film to end. Scottie Bushnell, who was Bob's right-hand everything, said he was afraid of actors. I told her she was wrong: Bob was not afraid of anything, least of all actors. Bob respected actors. He put them in a safe patch and set them free. But I know a lot of people—money people, executives—thought Bob gave us too much control. They wanted him to get on the set and crack a whip and tell us where to stand. Bob would never do that.

JG: You showed me some notes you made for a book you wanted to write, and you had some stuff about Barbara Harris. Could you talk about her?

Sure, what do you want to know? That’s she a genius? That I studied and followed her? I did. We all had journals and notebooks and private sessions with Altman, except Barbara, who demanded that she be trusted. She invented that woman--the character, the clothes, the mannerisms. She would talk to me. I don't know why. Maybe we were both odd, damaged, angry actresses. She told me the biography of that woman, and it all came out in the film, and Altman was big enough to say it was all her. I worked with Mike Nichols on Plaza Suite, and he had known her for years. He adored her. Called her magical. Witchy. Witchy in the good sense. He really got me stoked on Barbara Harris. You know, sometimes I just look up and realize and admit that all of this—acting, theatre, films, television—was invented and it keeps on going just to provide opportunities for people like Barbara Harris, Maureen Stapleton, Geraldine Page, when she was with us, Sandy Dennis sometimes. It’s like the light you keep on the front porch, in case the prodigal child or the brilliant talent shows up. We keep the lights on for certain talents.

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