Wildflower Page 4

  OK, I said to myself, you know that this is your biggest issue, but is it having a girl of your own and the fear of repeating anything that took place in your own childhood? I calmed myself by thinking through the last year and a half with Olive, my Libra, and how my life is as safe and consistent, stimulating and loving, as it could possibly be. There is proof of an existence that quells my worst fear!

  OK, next. Is it that she looks like her? No, because she looks like me too, and yes, of course we both are going to resemble people in our families on both sides. But when Olive was born, she had the biggest, most beautiful wide-apart cat-shaped mega-eyes that there was already a point of difference. She actually seemed to take a bit after my mother-in-law, Coco, whom I cannot begin to describe how much I love, worship, and am simply in awe of. Coco is elegant, kind, smart, worldly, and a great, great, great mother! Her maiden name is Franco, and it was an inspiration for Frankie.

  But Frankie was looking more like my family here in this hospital in Los Angeles, California, on April 22, 2014, and I was facing something I had managed to avoid with Olive. I was being asked if I could dig deep and heal this pain from the relationship I had with my Taurus mother while I was looking at my Taurus daughter.

  I was born in 1975 to a single mother who was doing her best while still being young herself. She would actually never tell me her age—one of many strange mysteries I had with this woman—but I gather she was in her midtwenties when she had me. Still very much a hedonist, she brought me up with zero protection, zero consistency, and, as is known, we parted ways when I was fourteen, and we have rarely spoken since. I still support her—I must know that she is taken care of or I simply cannot function. I am grateful to this woman for bringing me into this world, and it would crush me to know she was in need anywhere. It is not who I am to harbor any anger for the fact that our life together was so incredibly unorthodox. I want only to say thank you to her, because I love my life and it takes every step to get to where you are, and if you are happy, then God bless the hard times it took you to get there. No life is without them, so what are yours, and what did you do with the lessons? That is the only way to live.

  Another philosophy I have is that nothing is taken away without it being replaced, and with that truth enters the love of my life when I was nineteen years old in Seattle, Washington. I was at a bar with friends, I was making a movie up there, and it was the ’90s, a very wild and inspired time for music and culture. But movies were the only thing on my mind. I had done a western film about two years before, and the whole experience made me want to make movies about girls. Capable girls. Girls who want to do what boys do but who still want to love the boys and want to run and tell their girlfriends about it and have each other’s backs. I was figuring out who I wanted to be in the world, and I would sit around making mixtapes and trying to dream up what I could in life.

  So there I was, sitting there in a booth, and my friend Jim said, by the way, my sister Nan is coming to meet us; she will be here for a few days. Great! And in walks this blond-haired, blue-eyed, big-teeth Breck girl with the most winning, warm, ingratiating smile I had ever seen. Nancy Juvonen was a girl who sang the songs of John Denver. She worked on planes as a flight attendant. She did semesters in Costa Rica and England. She worked on a dude ranch in Wyoming. She grew up in San Francisco and New Hampshire. Her life was about adventure and trying things. She was organized like no one I had ever met. She charted and diagramed everything and was a great planner and loved “board vision.” You would hear her say things like “slow and steady wins the race,” and she loved words like “EARN.” She would become my partner in business. She would take me in like a sister; she would change my whole world in so many important ways. Nancy Juvonen is the replacement for the absence of family. She was my gift in life. And she is a Taurus.

  Nan and I would start to actually articulate our vision when we started with our company, Flower Films. We wanted to tell stories. In the era of the early ’90s power-suit woman, we vowed we would not abandon our JanSport backpacks. But what we would do was constant homework. We studied everything. We made lists on everything. We read everything. And we built relationships with people we admired and respected rather than party with the beautiful people.

  We created a cozy, house-like environment at Flower Films on Sunset Boulevard. Nan’s office was warm and truly lived in. That’s where all our conversations and dreams took place. Her office was warm and utterly organized, and everything was labeled. Inbox, outbox, pictures hanging on the wall, pillows, and mantras by Abraham Lincoln in little frames placed on her desk. My office was a case study in disorganization, with papers all over my desk and no feng shui whatsoever. We did Christmas cards every year together, and it felt like we were creating traditions I just never had. In life outside the office we would road-trip across America in an RV. We would travel the world. We would adopt dogs. But the most important thing to know is that Nan never let me get away with anything . . . “YOU’RE LATE, and your time management sucks. You are selfish, and when you walk into a room apologizing for being late you are making it all about you. You are causing yourself and everyone else distractions and anxieties, and if you were just on time you could avoid all of this drama, for everyone.” Jesus.

  I was always hurt in the moment. One time I called her to tell her I wanted to direct. “You’re not ready. You’re too disorganized and you’re still late and you cannot waste people’s money and time. That is not leadership, and directors are leaders.” I told her I would call her back and hung up and burst into tears.

  “Don’t ever drink and drive! Vote!” All of these wonderful things my parents should have taught me. I was so grateful for her tough love because it let me know time and again she cared, and for the record I was never late when I directed, thanks to her. She was willing to fight to help me get to my better self.

  No matter what we go through, we always come out stronger. I have spent most holidays of my life with her family; she was the maid of honor at my wedding; and she is the family I never had until I made my own. And she still is. Twenty-two years she has been my beacon of light and goodness. She’s also the most fun person ever. And if you’re looking for the best advice on love, look no further. We’ve made many films about relationships, and on one particular one called Fever Pitch, she met her husband, Jimmy Fallon, and the perfect girl met the perfect guy. And although she hates when I call her perfect, to me she is.

  Most of all, Nan was there to always teach me that if you stay emotionally balanced and responsible in life you are able to have the real joy. The earned joy. Back when we were just starting out, she lived in a small bachelorette apartment in West Hollywood. I remember walking in and seeing a yellow sign on her fridge that said “HAPPINESS IS A CHOICE.” I stared at it. I loved it, but it took me twenty years to realize that it’s the word “choice” that is so powerful. You must make that choice all the time. And the people I follow in life are the kind of people who are capable of making that choice all the time. Consistently.

  She would also tell me that when I felt lost, the best thing to do was write! And as a lover of journals, this really spoke to me. And wouldn’t you know it, another lady I love, Kate Capshaw Spielberg (Scorpio!) got me a five-year journal after Olive was born. And when I was a brand-new mother and experiencing fear and worry like I have never felt, this pink leather-bound journal was delivered to my door with a note that read, “Start writing to your daughter and keep it up every day! Love, Kate.” I held this care package of a journal in my hand and I thought of what Nan always said. And I have written in it every day of my life since then, chronicling Frankie’s and Olive’s lives; and when my daughters are older, it will be my gift to them.

  So who was I in this hospital room? Was I a damaged kid with mother issues, or was I a woman who has gone out there and fought hard for my lessons and actually found great role models? Great people, like Nan, have led me and lifted me out of feeling
helpless or scared and given me power. Now I need to pass on this wisdom and strength. Was I going to cower in this room when this kid, this new beautiful baby, needs me? Hell no. I got up, so sore and groggy, and picked up my baby Taurus. And I kissed her face over and over. I vowed, just as I did with Olive, that I would always be her warrior. I am their Pisces mother. Mother of dragons! I am strong. I have learned. I love Love and have plenty to give. It is my powerful destiny that I am supposed to raise two good girls into two great women! All right. Here we go, my beautiful little girls. Here we go.

  Tokyo, 1982

  THE SCHOOL OF E.T.

  In 1982, in Culver City, California, I was auditioning for a film called Poltergeist. The producer was taking the auditions because the director was unavailable. His name was Steven Spielberg. And when I went into the room we started talking. I guess I did the same thing with him that I was starting to do with other people, which is lie. I was six, and I had basically developed a crazy alternate life in which I had skills like cooking and all kinds of brothers. I had zero siblings, and of course I didn’t know how to make my way around a kitchen.

  But the biggest thing in life that was currently taking up all my time was my so-called drumming. I was in an imaginary band called the Purple People Eaters, and my style was more punk rock than pop. In my room at Poinsettia Place I had posters all over my bedroom wall of Blondie and Superman, Kiss (which gave me nightmares, but I insisted on keeping it up), and of course Pippi Longstocking. She was my ultimate hero. She could hold up a horse with her superhuman strength. She could show you how to have fun when you didn’t exactly have family around. She could clean with brushes on her feet like ice skates, and she loved to travel. Every day in Pippi’s world was a chance to go down the Nile or fight pirates. She made you feel like there was nothing you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it.

  Of course, I had told myself somewhere in my head that a healthy imagination is a good thing. And girls that rock are the way to go! So when I met Steven, I was in this state where the sky was the limit on what a girl could do, and he rewarded that with telling me I wasn’t right for this movie. My heart sank.

  But there was good news. He himself was directing a film called A Boy’s Life, and would I come meet on that instead? Sure. I calculated in my head that I was too colorful for this project, but maybe his other one I was more suited for. I left the office and figured that if I got a callback for that film, I would know he was serious; if I never heard from him again, well, I would know he was just being nice, and I would try to capture the next job in my butterfly net with my skills and my stories.

  My mom got a call a few weeks later from Marci Liroff, who was the woman working with Mike Fenton and Jane Feinberg, the casting directors for Steven’s film. Well, I thought, this guy kept his word, how cool! And back in I went to meet with him. Now, I was thinking, I have already told him my usual rhetoric and wild tales, what am I going to wow him with now? And I started working up some bits on the way over.

  I was very confident and precocious at that age. Now when I walk into a room, I survey it with humility and take in how I might best disarm people and yet bring them together. But that morning, when I was six, walking into a room with four adults, I had swagger. They all sat around observing me and asking questions. I was a dry-witted, lying, thieving six-year-old, and I just wanted to win the job and go on an adventure! Jobs cured the loneliness that I wouldn’t have known how to classify but strongly felt. But here, right now, I had an audience! And I wanted to make the most of it. So after my made-up tales and small talk that was larger than life, I was mostly directing it to Steven because I knew that he was buying it; but once it was winding down, they all turned to each other and started talking as if I wasn’t in the room. They do that in auditions. And you are expected to entertain yourself and look so distracted that you can’t hear their hushed tones four feet away. I sat there, wondering when they would turn their attention back to me. I felt small. Scared all of a sudden.

  What if they said thank you and that was it, which had happened plenty of times to me. I had been acting since I was eleven months old. My mother was working nights, but she thought I could make money during the day. It started with a Gainse-Burger puppy chow audition. According to her there were so many babies in the waiting room they were “hanging off the chandeliers.” As if there were fancy chandeliers in some dingy audition hall. I think I get a lot of my euphemisms from my mom, as she had a great way of analogizing and describing things. But there we were. And my dirt-poor mother was thinking I had no chance in hell at landing this gig and bringing in some extra money for us. She worked two jobs already, and we were struggling, which is why she brought me to this crazy place to begin with.

  So apparently, when I went into the room, all the people, the director and the casting agents, were sitting around, and I was not unlike the puppy that they brought in. I was being observed, and the goal was for them to choose me and take me home! So I started playing with the puppy. Standard fare, probably not too different from what the other babies who didn’t totally freak out did; and just then, when they were chalking me up as another decent non-flipping-out child, the dog bit me. Everyone stopped! Oh shit!

  My mother said she could see the word “lawsuit” on everyone’s frozen and horrified faces. The room went and stayed silent. I looked at everyone, probably more scared by the looks on their faces and the energy that hung sour and perilous. The air was thick with fear and anticipation—what was going to happen to the baby who just got bit by that damn dog???? That moment of purgatory was probably when I realized in my eleven-month-old soul that you could conduct the energy in a room, because what I did next was throw my head back and laugh!

  As everyone started to actually breathe again, they took my cue supposedly and started to clap and cheer too, again probably out of sheer relief that I was not hurt and taking them to court, and my mom said that they all started animatedly talking to one another and slapping knees and wiping foreheads. Needless to say, I got the job. And my budding commercial and TV movie career began.

  Now, it was not all throwing-back-heads-and-laughing moments. I quickly learned that this was a cattle call business and you win some and you lose some. There were rooms of nice people, and rooms that just wanted you in and out. Then there were rooms where no matter what little vaudeville act I pulled out of my hat, they were not amused and I clearly wasn’t what they were looking for.

  But the worst kind was the room where I could tell I did well, but at the end of the day, there was just someone else who did better or was more right, and I would go home feeling so high, and yet I would get the call that the part was going to someone else and they just said, thank you anyway. For a kid those are hard calls—rejection is a lesson you usually learn later in life. But my mom would take me to McDonald’s or something and I’d feel better. Come to think of it, it’s probably why I associate healing pain with delicious fatty foods. It really does work!

  Back in this moment, though, I wondered which way the pendulum would swing. I could tell I’d done well, but how well? Eventually they turned back to me and asked if I would come back. Steven said I would have to go on tape this time, and I was like, whatever! If I had to hang upside down and rip out my own nails to do this all over again, I would. I hope I didn’t actually put it that way, but that was how I felt. Again, I was a hyperimaginative kid with nothing to lose!

  And so I came back. In fact, Steven kept having me back again and again. Each time I felt more like the Fonz and less like a scared kid. There must be something I’m hawking that he likes! I was excited and encouraged. The final audition, he wanted to see if I could scream. I probably said something to the effect of “watch this”; again, I was much cockier at six than I am at forty. And so they turned the tape on, and I watched the wheels of the audio record go round and round, and I waited for Steven’s signal. He did and then I did. I screamed. I screamed so loud that I broke the
device and the tape stopped.

  Again, the room went silent. Oh God. Had I done something wrong? Was I screwed? Would they all turn to each other in a good mood, or was this my lead into the “thank you, but no thank you” phone call? Steven smiled, and that was it. A few days later, the phone call came from Marci to my mom, and my mom told me, “You got the job!” We would start in a few weeks.

  I froze. And then I ran to my room and looked at all my poster friends on the wall. Kiss and Blondie seemed especially “hats off to you” with their tongues out and rocker hand gestures. Superman seemed like a proud puffin, with a “you can do it” look. But Pippi seemed the most excited. She had that wry smile and that mischievous look in her eye. I felt like I could lift a horse in that moment just like her!

  When we got to the first day, I went through wardrobe fitting, and they showed me this tiny little dressing room that would be mine, my little home for the next three months. We were at Laird Studios in Culver City, which was the old David O. Selznick studio. It was quaint and more intimate than other studios. Instead of trailers you had bungalows. And then they led me to a little schoolhouse, and they said I would start to clock in my three hours a day, which is the requirement today. Under child labor laws, anyone under sixteen must attend three hours of school a day and work no more than nine and a half hours—a rule I sorely miss as an adult when I am on set in the seventeenth hour of the day and still going. I will sit on set and mutter under my breath when I see children being let go—“Friggin children’s hours! Ha!”—because now I just want to go home!

  But back then you would have to pry me away. When my time was up, I was devastated. Depressed all the way home, only to wake up and run back! And that was what we did. Every day my mom would drive me to work, and I would go into the little schoolhouse and join all the other kids.