eight
Larry never came to grips with the Hollywood scene. He’d show up for meetings with lawyers and accountants, and he’d leave those meetings shaking his head and muttering to himself. If he ever felt overwhelmed by their polish and relative sophistication, he didn’t let on. He was there with a specific goal in mind. He was there to ask questions, hard questions, and to get answers, even harder answers. One by one my business advisers disappeared. Finally, Larry and I were left with each other. With each other and very little else.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” he said one night. “Which would you like to hear first?”
“Larry, tell me the bad news.”
“Okay; you’re roughly $50,000 in debt.”
“And you also have some good news?”
“I love you.”
“Fifty-thousand dollars in debt?” This time I skipped right by the good news. “How could that happen? I’ve made an awful lot of money.”
“For everyone but yourself,” he said.
“But how can that be?”
“Easy—you’ve been getting screwed by everyone.”
“So what else is new?”
Getting screwed by everyone
—would those words someday find their way onto my tombstone? I wouldn’t be surprised. Being in financial hot water was new to me. It was clear that I had to earn money, a great deal of money, just to keep from going under. Although small economies would not make a dent, we did start by living modestly, eating dinner at home, carefully scrutinizing every offer that came our way.
One offer seemed different from the others. This one came through an acquaintance and it seemed, if not ideal, well, at least all right. The title of the movie was
Laure
and it was to be a French-Italian co-production shot in the Philippines. There would be no nudity and no sex.
The money was good—$10,000 down and $5,000 a weeek. Not just for a one-shot but for a three-picture contract. As an added bonus, we would be flown to Rome to meet the producers and to iron out details. We had positive feelings about the project. No nudity, no sex—this one sounded good.
The movie, unlike many I’d been offered, even came with a screen treatment. On most projects that found their way to me, this would have been an optional extra. There was even a description of my character: “Daughter of the director of the Lance Institute for Pacific Studies. Postgraduate student in Social Ethnology.” All
right
! That certainly
sounded
good. So what if I had to look up “ethnology” in a dictionary? The roles I’d played up until then couldn’t be looked up in any legitimate reference work.
I started to read the treatment: “Four Europeans arrive at Emelle, an island in the south of the Philippines. . . . These four people have come to Emelle to shoot a documentary film about an unknown tribe. . . .” The film involved some voodoo and some romantic byplay. But basically it was a love story. In fact, I was delighted with the way the first love scene was described: “We do not see them making love, but their actions can be read from the expression on the face of the hotel boy who is watching them from the corridor. . . .” Film-makers I’d worked for in the past did not concern themselves that much with facial expressions or, for that matter, faces.
The fact that I was cast to play a scientist should have given me second thoughts. (Ethnology, as I found out, is “a branch of anthropology that analyzes cultures, especially in regard to their historical development and the similarities and dissimilarities between them.”) Okay, that should have made me suspicious. Who, in his right mind, would cast Linda Lovelace as a scientist? An anthropologist, no less. But I was so anxious to be involved in something “respectable” that I didn’t bother to ask the questions I should have asked. I needed only reassurance.
“And there won’t be any sex or nudity?”
“Not at all,” I was told. “The producers know precisely how you feel about this.”
And so we flew to Rome to meet the producers and director. That was
their
reason. Our reason was different, slightly more romantic. It was to be together. Sometimes I wonder whether anyone ever had more romantic honeymoons than we did.
Not that it began romantically. That first night in Rome I was in a jet-lag sleep and it happened again. The dream. Once again there was a stranger crawling in through my window. I tried to scream but the sound wouldn’t come. As I sat up in bed, I could see the others, five of them, surrounding the bed, staring down at me, closing in on me. This time there was a difference, something new, the roar of lions off in the distance. Sobbing, I woke up in a state of deep panic. Although I was now fully awake and my attackers were gone, the roaring seemed to continue. The next morning I learned our hotel was located near the Rome zoo.
Italy was, at this time, a center for international terrorism; there were helmeted soldiers and jeeps everywhere. It was also a center for labor strife and it seemed that every time we tried to take a shower, the water company went on strike. However, the small refrigerator in our hotel room was filled with complimentary wine and champagne and so we both learned to brush our teeth in champagne; it’s not half-bad once you get the knack of it. If we knew what lay directly ahead of us, we might not have been acquiring such expensive habits.
The producers of the movie seemed charming and pleasant enough. One of them owned a winery and he made it his personal project to educate us on the selection of wines. He taught us that you could measure the quality of chianti classico by the small symbol on the label: The rooster is best; the ship is second best; the baby is third best.
The other money people in Rome seemed to be successful businessmen and the director was French. While they spoke constantly of business matters, the conversations were in French or Italian with just an occasional English aside for our benefit. And so while they focused on business, we concentrated on each other and Rome and just having a good time.
Everytime I asked what the movie was about, I was told the same thing: “It’s a love story—a beautiful love story.” If I pressed for more details, I was told, “Don’t worry—we are in the jungle and someone is pregnant and about to have a baby and it is a beautiful love story.” I had some trouble remembering whether I was supposed to be an archeologist or an anthropologist—but what did it really matter?
Every day we talked by telephone with Larry’s family lawyer back on Long Island. He told us step by step what we should look out for, what we should request, what we should insist on. This attorney—his name is Victor Yannacone—was to become very important in our lives. He may have been overly protective. As a result, I’m sure the producers thought we were a pain in the neck. But we really were babes in the woods, badly in need of guidance from someone.
For the longest time, everything seemed fine. There still wasn’t a script I could hold in my hands or any lines of dialogue that I could memorize, but they started fitting me for costumes and that was encouraging. The costumes all seemed legit. Bush clothes, pith helmets, nice white safari jackets that actually had buttons. In fact, I still have some of these clothes in my closet.
nine
From the beginning, Larry pooh-poohed my concern. He took things and people at face value while I withheld judgment. We both had the same modest goals: it would be enough if I could just keep my clothes on and pay off my debts.
There was a single early trouble spot. One of the film executives and his girlfriend suggested a little dinner in our hotel suite. The man was tall, thin, white-haired and dark-bearded. His girlfriend’s most noteworthy feature were breasts that were kept perpetually propped up and almost popping out of her dress. The minute the couple came into our room, dressed for action, I sensed trouble. However, we went on to share a pleasant supper and a steady flow of wine.
The four of us had what Larry will always remember as an innocent evening. But that’s only because Larry didn’t know the codes. I’d been in Hollywood long enough to understand nuances. While neither of our guests spoke much English, they were both fluent in innuendo.
The film executive punctuated every sentence with a small squeeze on my hand or forearm and a meaningful glance. “We must get to
know
each other,” he would say. “To work together, we must understand each other’s
deepest
secrets,” he would say. “There is no reason the four of us shouldn’t be able to work things out and get along . . .
beautifully.
After all, we’re going to be
living
together in the jungle,” he would say.
I knew what was going on because this had once been my assignment—to go to strangers and ignite a spark of sexual interest, in Chuck’s words, “to get something going.” And I knew what the film executive meant, even though his words could be taken as friendly and innocuous. Which is just the way Larry took them. But then, he hadn’t lived all those years in Hollywood. He didn’t know the game.
All we had to do was say something in return, any little expression of interest. These were partying people; one word from us and the games could commence. I knew what they were doing too well. It was so transparent to me that I felt violated. All I could think was: How
dare
they?
“Really?” Larry said later. “How come I didn’t see it?”
“Because you haven’t had the experience of being around their kind of people. In time you’ll be able to spot all sorts of little hints. . . .”
But what they didn’t know, and what they were finding out, (undoubtedly to their amazement) was that Linda Lovelace wasn’t what they had counted on. Not only wasn’t she a slut, she happened to be very much in love. And while all this was swirling around outside of us, Larry and I were in the eye of the storm, enjoying peace and quiet, just being with each other and relishing every minute of it.
Some people wonder how I could come out of my nightmare with Chuck Traynor and be able to feel love again for a man. In recent years I’ve met abused women who have decided to have nothing to do with men. I can understand their feelings but I feel sorry for them. If that happened to me, then Chuck Traynor would have come out the winner and there was no way I’d let that happen.
There was one other thing I wouldn’t let happen. I wasn’t going to let that nightmare depress me forever. Larry’s family lawyer Victor Yannacone once told me to do a little exercise whenever I was down. He told me to look at myself in the mirror, smile, and repeat to myself: “Hold your head up high and remember you’re a lady.” I know it’s overly simplified; I know it’s a form of self-hypnosis or brainwashing—still, simple as it was, it helped. And still does, from time to time.
I began to see myself that way, as a lady. No matter what had happened to me, no matter what the rest of the world thought, I was a lady and should be treated with the same respect as any other lady.
This attitude affected not only the way I looked at myself but the way I looked at lovemaking. I never want lovemaking to be mechanical or routine—it must be romantic.
To me the act of making love isn’t confined to the bedroom. It’s sitting and talking and being nice to each other. It’s finding out what the other person is worrying about and then trying to ease that worry. It’s building up the other person—being supportive.
So I want my husband to hug me when he comes home; I want him to give me a nice hello, to talk with me, not at me. Being together—that’s what’s important to me. And flowers never hurt, not a bit. It’s important that everything be mellow. Because all of this is, to me, part of the act of making love.
Even during the worst time in my life, I knew in my heart that lovemaking was supposed to be a certain way. Chuck Traynor was just an unhappy accident; I ran into him the way a ship runs into an iceberg. It was my good fortune to survive the encounter.
By simply being normal, Larry was able to win my heart. The only part of Larry I didn’t like was his temper. True, it was not directed at me, and it was not something I saw too much of in those days.
The preparation for a film is more important in many ways than the shooting itself. Before the actual filming, the basic understandings are reached. I’ll admit that Larry and I were being difficult—but always under the advice of our lawyer, and always with the thought of preventing future unpleasantness. I still have all the memos of our meetings with the producers and the directors and they trace a steady downhill story.
During our July trip to Rome, the initial goodwill began to disappear. One of the reasons was surely my unwillingness to compromise. A producer’s memorandum of an early meeting reflects my repeated insistence on “no nude scenes” as well as my insistence “on the right to destroy any frame that shows any of (my) private parts”—some people have ways of filming other people which make them believe they are in the privacy of their own homes.
My attitude resulted in my being taken off the title role (Laure) and given a lesser role (Natalie). However, I was winning all the early battles. The producers sent me a memo stating specifically, “You are not obliged to play any sex or nudity scenes” and giving me the right to destroy any frames “which might show any sex or nudity involving yourself.”
We packed and went from Rome to the Philippines where the shooting was to take place. We arrived in Manila in August. August was chosen, it was explained to me, because the hotel rates were significantly lower than they would be several weeks hence. What they neglected to add was that the weather would be significantly wetter than it would be several weeks hence.
During the off-season in the Philippines, it rains. Not just a little bit and not just now and then; it rains the way it rained on Noah and his ark, non-stop, for weeks at a time.
Every day during our first three weeks in the Philippines, the skies opened up and the rain cascaded down. We sat in our hotel rooms watching Spanish-language television; we viewed news reports that consisted mainly of water rising above the wheels of cars; we read books; we stared at walls. And since the Philippines were under a strict curfew, we went to bed early.
And every morning we woke up and looked out and saw the rain. We understood why the houses are built on stilts. That’s all anyone talked about—the rain—and no one talked about it with greater emotion than the moviemakers. For while the rains fell, not a single foot of film was shot. Understandably, everyone got a bit testy.
Our little movie in the Philippines started badly and it soon got worse.
Three weeks later, when the sun first broke through, we were all more than ready to begin shooting. Little did I dream that our first day of shooting was also going to be the last. That first day was spent in developing a system for working with an international crew—each direction had to be delivered in French, Italian, English, Spanish and, for all I know, Latin. A full day was spent repeating a simple sequence—I had to walk down a path to a jeep, then ride off in the jeep. That was it. I didn’t have a line to flub (or even learn). And no one asked me to take my clothes off.
Yet.
That night there was a meeting of the film executives in the hallway outside our room. They wanted to tell me about a change in our shooting schedule. Since rain was again predicted for the next day, they were going to do interior shots.
The new scene required just two things: I was to be in bed, nude. And secondly, I was to be masturbating with the lens of a 35-millimeter camera.
“Whoa,” I said. “I’m not taking my clothes off.”
“What do you mean, you’re not taking your clothes off?”
“Just that. I am
not
taking my clothes off!” I said. “And I’m not doing anything else.”
This, naturally, had to be translated in several languages—the response in each language was one of consternation.
I was also given script changes. my character (Natalie) joins Desmond and Marcello, and I say to them: “I’ve seen you on the campus. My name is Natalie. I like you.” Desmond replies: “My name is Desmond. He is Marcello. Why do you like us?” I say: “Because you are not afraid.”
Marcello asks, “Is there anything we should be afraid of?” And I say, “Yes. You should be afraid of being different from the majority. I know what that means. I also am different. Yet I am not afraid either. Being what I am makes me happy. You, too, are happy. That’s why I like you.” Desmond says, “You are very beautiful. Marcello and I have a passion for beauty.” To which I reply, “I have a passion for love. That’s the same thing. Tell me more of your love of beauty and I shall tell you about the beauty of love.”
Well, I tried. I read these awful lines, tried to make them sound real, but it was no go. Finally, in despair, I jotted my own comments on the bottom of the script and sent it back: “The dialogue is dumb. . . . Honestly, we are making an interesting and intelligent film, not a fairy tale for children. Which is how the dialogue reads.”
Mistake. I guess it’s never up to an actress, particularly a former porno star, to comment on the dialogue. Especially when the dialogue has been written by the director. To say the producers were outraged is to understate it. In fact, they insisted I sign a lengthy letter of apology which said, in part:
“The purpose of this letter is to apologize for my . . . comments which I now declare unjustifiable, offensive and grossly irrelevant and which I beg you to consider null and void. I regret my behavior in this connection and I undertake to play the scenes under reference, . . . in the form as was or will be conceived by you. I further undertake to abide by your instructions without any reservations whatsoever when performing my duties as an actress in the role of Natalie in all its implications whatsoever. I shall henceforward refrain from expressing any comments on the scenes and lines I am instructed to play. I shall also accept every amendment you deem appropriate to add to the above mentioned role. Such amendments shall be entirely left to your initiative and decision.”
All they wanted was unconditional surrender.
Which I couldn’t give them. Because I knew just what their “initiative and decision” would lead to. And I had absolutely no desire to be filmed while masturbating with the lens of a camera.
I was fired. The formal typewritten letter arrived from the producer the next day: “Your comments to the Author and Director are offensive and derogatory and have in fact caused him great stress, up to the point that his personal contact with you has become impossible. . . . Consequently you are herewith notified of termination of our agreements
and you will be no longer required to play in our film, LAURE
. . . All facilities put at your disposal are hereby revoked, and we are advising local Immigration Authorities that you are no longer required for the production. . . .”
In other words: You’re fired!
I wrote a letter to explain my position, and as I look at it now, I know it was dictated by our lawyer back home. It spoke of “an outrageous and reprehensible breach of our contract and understanding,” and “script changes which have no other purpose but to degrade me as a woman and human being and which are nothing more than ill-disguised references to my past performances,” and concluded: “It appears that you intended to threaten and terrorize me into performing scenes which would tend to degrade me as a woman and as a human being.”
In other words: You can’t fire me, I quit!
Once again I was out of work. Also out of money. Also no longer welcome in the Philippines. A government official appeared to inform us that we had 24 hours in which to leave the country. Not only was I being fired from a sleazy little film outfit, I was being fired from a whole country. I felt, for the first time since getting away from Chuck, both vulnerable and fearful.
Before leaving, I asked the producer to put it in writing that I was being fired because I refused to appear in the nude, which he did with an extra flourish to his signature.
“Linda, I have a new plan.” Larry said.
“I’m listening.”
“I think what we should do now is get the hell out of here.”
“Right,” I said.
While we had enough money to get away from the Philippines, we didn’t have enough to get all the way back to the mainland. We arrived the next morning in Hawaii with a total of $100 in our pockets and no clear way of making the trip from Hawaii to California. A collect call to a new accountant revealed what we had already guessed: Promised checks from the film company had never arrived.