I'll Scream Later (No Series) (15 page)

T
HE FIFTY-NINTH ANNUAL
Academy Awards. Monday, March 30, 1987. Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown L.A. And I had an A-ticket to the show.

It was like stepping into an imaginary world that I’d seen at a distance for years. Suddenly I’m there and it’s all turning out to be very real. Pinching yourself on these occasions helps, too!

In addition to my nomination, I’d been asked to be a presenter—for Best Achievement in Sound.

I thought that was funny; thank goodness someone attached to the show had a good sense of humor. Besides, I’ve never wanted to be treated with kid gloves.

Of course, some around me thought it was insulting and encouraged me to decline. No, no, no, no, no! The Academy wanted me to be a part of the pomp and ceremony, and I wasn’t going to miss out on that for anything.

Theoni Aldredge would design my dress for the Oscars that year. It was the first time I’d worked with a designer, and Theoni had created many remarkable clothes over the years. This jeans-and-T-shirts girl was meeting a designer who’d already won three Tonys for her work on Broadway and an Oscar for her costume designs for
The Great Gatsby
in 1975.

I was so happy that she took on the project and so anxious to get started that I don’t think I ever thanked Theoni properly. My time at Betty Ford, then the trip to Paris to promote the film, had left us with little more than three weeks to get everything done before the show. Luckily, Jennifer Beals was helping me with all the Oscar prep, too…I love that girl.

Famed Hollywood and Broadway costume designer Theoni Aldredge has won numerous honors in her long career. This is the drawing she gave me of the dress she designed for me to wear to the 1987 Academy Awards when I won an Oscar for
Children of a Lesser God.

Whatever Theoni designed, I knew I wanted to use my favorite color—purple. From the palest whisper of lilac to the deep richness of eggplant, it’s a happy color for me, a good strong color; it can feel tough and feminine at the same time, maybe a little like me. Theoni envisioned a lace dress and sent me samples in different shades—I went with soft lavender—along with lovely sketches of long, fitted sleeves, a tight bodice disappearing into a cummerbund of lavender ribbons that opened into a sweeping skirt with lots of swing and swish to it. The design had a blend of romance and elegance that I loved.

(If you’re wondering how I stacked up in the celebrity constellation at this point in my career, I should mention that the sketches she sent over were addressed to Marlee Martin…oh, well.)

Meanwhile, back in New York I stayed busy. I was trying to hit a lot of AA meetings, and the studio wanted to make up for lost time on the publicity front. I also made frequent trips to D.C. since production on
Broadcast News
was in full swing.

Bill and I seemed to have reached a sort of détente in those weeks, tentatively stepping around each other in our newly sober lives. He had gotten his son, Alex, a dog, a big furry beast, a border collie name Maggie, one of the sweetest dogs ever and a great distraction whenever the tension would start building between us.

I was also trying to arrange for my family to make it to L.A. for the Academy Awards show—and I defined family as my mom and dad; my brothers, Marc and Eric; my sister-in-law, Gloria; my nephew, Zach; my hairdresser, Dennis; and of course Liz. Plus Jack was coming to interpret, and he wanted to bring his mom and dad, Sarah and Benny, and brother Sam, too. That meant a request for eleven extra tickets. We got them all.

Getting ready for the Oscars, 1987

Bill and I were booked into the Bel-Air Hotel, and on the morning of the awards show my family came over so we could get ready together. At the last minute I decided to wear my hair up, with curls on top, and at the last second my hairdresser, a dear friend who has since died of AIDS, put in a sprig of baby’s breath. I had a new pair of oversize, black, horn-rimmed glasses that I’d just picked up that week. When I debated ditching the glasses, Bill looked at me and said with more than a little sarcasm. “You’re not a model.” So the glasses stayed.

The look would land me on a few Worst Dressed lists. Cringe, I hate that. But if you try to overthink the fallout from fame in Hollywood, it will drive you completely crazy. Besides, there will always be another dress, another show.

As the day wore on, tensions between my family and Bill were rising. As Gloria put it, “No one can suck joy out of a room quite like William.” My mom describes his angry eyes as “shooting daggers,” with long silences broken by uncomfortable attempts at conversation.

The cloud lifted for the red-carpet walk into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. We were the couple of the moment. The media was in love with the plotline—couple meets and falls in love on film set, now they arrive on this day each with an Oscar nomination, and, as Bill had long ago figured out, if I won, he would be presenting the award to me. The three of us—Jack was interpreting—made our way along the crush of reporters, photographers, and a long string of bleachers overflowing with fans.

It’s hard not to feel your spirits lift in moments like these. There is such a connection—the feeling that it takes all of you together, the combined energy of the stars, the crowd, the photographers, the reporters, to make the moment electric. I have always been so grateful to my fans, they have extended such sincerity to me through the years that never ceases to touch me. I keep waiting to get tired of all of it, but I never do.

Inside the auditorium my family and Jack’s were tucked away in the farthest reaches of the balcony, but at least they were there! Chevy Chase, Goldie Hawn, and Paul Hogan were cohosts for the
evening. Everywhere I turned, major stars were greeting one another. I wanted to be a part of that club.

A
CONFESSION
. W
HEN
you’re up for an award, try as you might, it’s hard to concentrate on the show. The Oscars usually runs a bit over three hours—the longest three hours of my life, not counting labor and childbirth.

But finally it was time. Bill was behind the lecturn, reading the names of all the nominees. There was the envelope. Snap, the seal was broken. I couldn’t hear it, but I swear I could feel it.

And the winner is…he said my name, then used my name sign. And that’s when I knew for sure. My stomach dropped. I had, against all odds, won.

The other nominees in my category were all established stars, and the performances that year were extremely strong. The odds-on favorite to win going into the night had been Kathleen Turner for
Peggy Sue Got Married.
I had thought it might go to Sissy Spacek for
Crimes of the Heart,
in a performance I’d loved. The other nominees in the category were Jane Fonda for
The Morning After,
and Sigourney Weaver for
Aliens.
To be standing in the company of these women was amazing.

The applause erupted as I got up and made my way to the stage. The camera panning the other nominees focused on Jane Fonda, who was smiling and saying, “Isn’t that wonderful,” and looking as if she absolutely meant it. When you work in Hollywood, you collect memories like these, or at least I do—those moments of spontaneous kindness that feel absolutely real.

I wasn’t sure how to approach Bill. I tried to block out all the time he’d spent in recent weeks examining and reexamining the emotional toll my winning would take on him.

Play it safe, Marlee, keep it professional. I stuck out my hand to shake his—he took it, then pulled me in for a quick, gentle kiss. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe everything would be okay.

Meanwhile Jack had quickly and as discreetly as possible gotten to his position, too, just a little below the podium. At first the producers had wanted Jack to stay in his seat with a microphone in
hand. That was crazy! Jack explained why that wouldn’t work—we actually have to be able to see each other to communicate—so he and the producers came up with a compromise that put him on the steps leading up to the stage.

Emotions were welling up inside me as I looked out at what felt like the entire entertainment industry. I wanted to savor this moment. Just two years ago, almost to the day, I had been onstage in a small Chicago theater with a minor role in an independent production of
Children of a Lesser God.
Now I had an Oscar in my hand. Dreams do come true.

Once again the speech was simple—I thanked my family, Randa, the producers, the cast and crew, though this time I singled out Bill for the quality of his artistry, his mastery of the craft, which is exceptional still to this day. I ended with two signs—for “Thank you” and “I love you”—then made my way backstage, where Goldie Hawn grabbed me and gave me the biggest, warmest hug.

In the chaos backstage I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around. It was Elizabeth Taylor. I had to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. Talking to her even just for a moment was mind-blowing.

Great moments like that were sprinkled throughout the night.
Variety
’s celebrity columnist Army Archerd learned to sign “Congratulations” before the show in case I won, then used it when he saw me. Later that night at a party, both Sissy and Sigourney were so gracious and generous in their good wishes, too.

That didn’t mean everyone was on my side—the New York
Daily News
film critic Rex Reed wrote a scathing piece telling Academy voters that they would be wasting their vote on me. I wasn’t “acting,” I was merely a Deaf girl playing a Deaf girl. He predicted that if I won, it would be a fluke, there would be no career for Marlee Matlin.

I’ve got to be honest—that hurt like hell. You try not to take that sort of criticism to heart, but it’s not easy. But by the way, Rex, I was not even close to giving up on Hollywood, and it wasn’t through with me either.

I am still the youngest woman to win an Oscar in the category Actress in a Leading Role, and one of only a handful to win an
Oscar in their debut performance. I love the precision of the Academy on this: I was specifically twenty-one years and 218 days old on Oscar night.

Kiss my ass, Rex!

The next youngest was Janet Gaynor, at twenty-two years and 222 days, when she won hers, the first year the Academy Awards were held. Most of the rest of the younger winners were in their midtwenties, and among my contemporaries I’m pleased to be counted with Hilary Swank, who was twenty-five when she won for
Boys Don’t Cry,
and Jodie Foster, who was twenty-six when she was recognized for
The Accused.

I also remain the only Deaf person to have won an acting Oscar. In the more than twenty years since I won my Oscar, with so many talented Deaf actors, I had hoped other Deaf actors would have joined that league. The talent is there, the opportunity should be.

When you’re standing up there in the lights, heart pounding, Oscar in hand, there’s always someone you fail to mention. I think it’s just the nature of these awards shows. Everyone has their story; mine is Jack.

Although we met after
Children of a Lesser God
had wrapped, by then we’d been working together closely for more than a year. He was a great, steady presence in my life and in my work, but I didn’t think to mention him that night. His father, who until then had pretty much adored me, was deeply hurt that I had overlooked his son. It would be a couple of years before he completely got over it. Thankfully Jack didn’t expect it. He was completely focused on being a part of the Oscars, his voice playing to an audience of millions; he was having a blast.