Lady Parts (19 page)

I’ve known the fears of sixty-six years

I’ve had troubles and tears by the score.

But the only thing I’d trade them for

Is sixty-seven more.

That night I sang the song to Tina. I looked up into the rafters and imagined her there, waving and laughing.

Oh, honey. Oh, honey, sixty-seven more,
she was saying.
You deserve that. I love you, honey. I love you.

The Innocent Girl Next Door

The Girl on the Phone Next Door

The Surprised Girl Next Door

The Nude Girl with the Medical Alert Bracelet Next Door
*

I
was asked to replace the renowned Canadian filmmaker Deepa Mehta, who was bedridden with the flu. She was to present the Best Canadian Film Award at the annual Toronto Film Critics Association (TFCA) gala dinner at the historic Carlu in downtown Toronto. On the day of the event, the organizers asked me to step in. Under usual circumstances, with such short notice I would have declined, if for no other reason than, with the holidays barely over, none of my clothes fit. And I
had
to look good at this event. Every Toronto film critic was going to be there. I did not want to give them ammunition to attack my fragile ego with disparaging remarks about my appearance. Many lauded Canadian directors would be present: Toronto’s own David Cronenberg, and two hot Quebec filmmakers, Philippe Falardeau and Jean-Marc Vallée. I had to impress them. I was looking for work, after all, and would have killed to
be in one of their magnificent films. Of course, I wanted to look my best. My insecurities about my body ran rampant.
Who was going to cast a bloated actor hungry for work? Why had I fed that hunger, over the holidays, with unlimited supplies of Timbits? Why were layers of doughnut grease still lodged in the crevices of my chin?
Also present would be press and photographers and television cameras. I certainly didn’t need one more bad photo on Wireimage.com.

So I did what I always do when I have to make a decision. I called my sister, the voice of reason.

“Of course you have to do this. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a good audience for you. Everyone thinks of you for television and stage. The film community needs to know you’re still out there. It’s great exposure.
Do
it.”

Why was I being so neurotic about my appearance? As far as I knew, my looks had never gotten me a job before, even with the minimal cosmetic surgery I have had done. Yes, “conservative procedures” have been performed on me over the years to keep up with my youthful energy. At least, that was my rationalization. But to my knowledge, none of it led to more opportunity. All it did was force me to find more work, to pay off the cosmetic-procedure bills.

But back to the TFCA event. Once my sister convinced me to say yes, I started to write down some jokes, some material for the evening. Then it dawned on me.
What material? What the hell do I have in common with Toronto film critics? Why did they ask me to present an award?
I am
so not part of the film community in Toronto. It would be like asking Conrad Black to host the Tonys.

Aside from Ivan Reitman’s 1973 horror film
Cannibal Girls,
in which Eugene Levy and I starred, and in which I dined on Eugene’s body parts at the end of the movie (more on that later); Bob Clark’s 1974 sorority horror film
Black Christmas,
in which I, along with sorority sister Margot Kidder, were strangled by a psychopathic pervert who lived in the attic; and Mary Walsh’s 2006 comedy
Young Triffie’s Been Made Away With,
in which I played a crazy, drug-addicted wife of a drunk Newfoundland doctor, I had never appeared in another Canadian film.

It was 2012, however, the year I vowed to myself, to my agent, to my manager, and to my sister to say yes to everything that was offered to me. It was clear that, after a long career of saying no, I had to bravely start saying yes. The new me was committed to showing up, putting one foot ahead of the other, having fun, and letting go of the results. As Woody Allen said, 99 percent of success is just showing up. And with the insight of my astrologer, Althea, it became even more evident at my January 1, 2012, reading that it was time to change. She told me I had chosen a career path in which I was comfortable hovering
under
the radar of success. I had not allowed myself to climb to the top and stay there. It was time to believe in myself. She asked that every time I had an insecure thought, I draw a big
X
over the thought. It was time to stop thinking I had to please anyone but myself.

So, armed with positively aligned planets, I drew an
X
over my body thoughts, put on my loose-fitting short red party dress, glued on a couple of eyelashes, and started writing some jokes. Even though the organizers had told me that all I had to do was announce the nominees and the winners, they also added, “But feel free to crack some jokes.” Cracking jokes does not come easily to me, contrary to what you may think. It takes work to come up with funny material without writers … in front of prospective employers. Okay, wait, now I was doing what I always do: worrying about what the audience may think. I just put an
X
over that thought. A medium-size X, but it was a beginning. I was going to follow in the footsteps of Ricky Gervais: extemporaneously ad lib brilliant remarks
—and
I would do it without help from a staff of writers. I was going to trust myself in the moment to come up with something hilarious and entertaining.

And by God, that’s what I did. And it worked. I told a couple of the written jokes. I read a letter from Christopher Plummer, who couldn’t be there. I read it like I thought Mr. Plummer would read it, overarticulating and emphasizing every sincere word on the page. I didn’t do it to get a laugh. But it did. Now I was on an ad libbing roll.

I then read the names of the three best Canadian films of 2011 and their directors. Philippe Falardeau for
Monsieur Lazhar,
Jean-Marc Vallée for
Café de Flore,
and David Cronenberg for
A Dangerous Mind.
I was about to open the
envelope and announce the winner when it was brought to my attention that I had said one of the titles incorrectly.
A Dangerous Method
was the name of David Cronenberg’s film, not
A Dangerous Mind.

“Oh dear,” I gasped out loud. “I have made a terrible mistake and I apologize, Mr. Cronenberg. The name of your film is, of course,
A Dangerous Method
, not
A Dangerous Mind.
Now you will never cast me in one of your films.” The audience laughed. “What can I do to repay you? I’ll do anything. All night. Anything. Believe me, I’m sixty-five, time is running out, whatever you want.” The audience was really laughing now. I realized I had let my age slip out, loudly, in an ad libbing moment of terror, over three mics and on camera, in front of every critic, every producer, and three of the most distinguished directors in Canadian film.

At that point, did any of the cosmetic work matter?

No, of course not. Here’s what mattered. I said yes to life. Instead of staying home and watching a rerun of
Duck Dynasty,
I showed up. I was myself. I had fun. I had no expectations. I felt honoured to be a part of the TFCA Awards. Brian Johnson, the president of the TFCA, thanked me profusely for “stepping in and being the trooper I was.” And he added, “You killed.” Both Monsieur Falardeau and Monsieur Vallée introduced themselves to me and, independent of each other, said they were big fans. In their beautiful French-Canadian accents, they had me at “pardon.” One of the most successful producers in Canada asked me to lunch to discuss ideas for
a television show. I am booked to host another gala. I am booked to be a guest on three talk shows. I’m having coffee with a young writer about a film he has written, in which he would like me to play a part. Someone told me I had great legs. Two women came up to me and said they loved that I had said my age out loud. It was empowering for all us women, they exclaimed. I also found out that Mr. Cronenberg had been in the washroom during my faux pas and wasn’t aware of anything I had said. I did not destroy my chances of being in one of his films.

No one commented on the Botox on my forehead, nor on the grease around my chin. No one said they thought I didn’t belong at a Toronto film event. I hovered
over
the radar of success that night. And it felt good. Someone sent me a photo from the event. It was on Wireimage.com. I was standing next to David Cronenberg, who had his arm around me. I was smiling, and my red dress shimmered. I hope Deepa Mehta is over her flu, and that she’s healthy. I’m grateful she gave me the opportunity to say
yes
at the start of a new year. It’s going to be a good one for character actresses. I can feel it.

T
he other day I was combing theatre websites looking for my name—’cause what could be a more constructive use of time?—and I came across an article that began with
Andrea Martin has made a career out of playing old ladies.
At first I was mortified. How could anyone have pigeonholed me and my illustrious career so inaccurately? I then did a quick mental survey about the roles I had played on stage, and to my shock, the article was right.

In the ’70s, when I was in my twenties, I was cast as, quite literally, the Old Lady in
Candide,
directed by Lotfi Mansouri at the Stratford Festival in Canada. On Broadway, I performed Aunt Eller in
Oklahoma!,
Golde in
Fiddler on the Roof,
Frau Blucher in
Young Frankenstein,
and yet again, the Old Lady in Hal Prince’s
Candide
on Broadway.

Old Lady

Golde

Frau Blücher

I played the part of Juliette, the old servant, in
Exit the King
; Dolly Levi in
The Matchmaker
; and an old drunk piano teacher in
On the Town.

Yes, many roles I’ve played have been women older than me, but I don’t think of them as old lady parts. I think
of them as character parts. A character part is the sassy sidekick, the nosy neighbour, the town whore, the Jewish yenta—you get the point. I don’t play the romantic lead who gets to make out with Ryan Gosling. I’m the housekeeper who walks in on them, does a spit take, trips over Mr. Gosling’s underwear, and crawls on all fours out the door. (By the way, this movie hasn’t been written yet, but I already hear that Betty White has beaten me out for the role.) I love playing character parts because you don’t have to carry the show and you get all the great laughs.

Looking back, I realize it all started when I was a little kid. My first role ever was the Fairy Godmother in the Children’s Theatre production of
Cinderella
in Portland, Maine. I was nine years old and already playing character parts.

Thirty years later, I played another fairy godmother on
SCTV,
Mrs. Falbo.

Every character role I’ve ever played has been rooted in my childhood: here I am as a forty-five-year-old Greek woman, Aunt Voula, in
My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Here I am thirty-three years earlier at my high school prom, looking like a forty-five-year-old Greek woman.

Forty-five year-old Greek woman

Forty-five year-old Greek woman

Lucy in
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
was my first professional character role.

After that tour ended, I moved to Toronto, where I heard there were auditions for the Toronto premiere of
Godspell.
I had seen the show in New York and thought I’d be right for it, basically because it seemed that you didn’t need to be a good singer or dancer to be in the show. It was a musical full of character actors with big personalities. I knew I was perfect for it. However,
they
did not. When I auditioned, hundreds of people were lined up to sing. I waited and waited, and finally my number was called. I got up onstage and, even though I knew the character description was “innocent follower of Christ,” I did my signature audition song, “Somebody” from the rock musical
Celebration,
which would have been perfect for the live nude version of
Girls Gone Wild
but decidedly not for a Jesus disciple. I got halfway through, to just after the gyrating-hips section, and
was then cut off abruptly. Some disembodied voice from the audience yelled, “Thank you, next”—three words no actor ever wants to hear, unless the words are immediately followed by “You got the part.” I slunk back to my seat and continued to watch the auditions.

At that moment, I saw an adorable girl walk up on stage, with her hair in pigtails and her baggy trousers held up with brightly coloured suspenders. She skipped around the stage joyously and sang a childlike version of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” She brought the house down. It was Gilda Radner. That was my cue to flee and walk directly to Dunkin’ Donuts, where I bought and consumed a dozen crullers on my way to a Vic Tanny gym, where I then sat in the sauna for two weeks trying to sweat them off.

One day I heard my name over the loudspeaker; I was being called to the phone. I wrapped myself in a towel, walked to the phone in the locker room, and heard the distinctive voice of my friend Eugene Levy, who
had
been cast in
Godspell.
We knew each other from our award-winning performances as the stars of Ivan Reitman’s
Cannibal Girls.
By “award-winning” I don’t mean the Oscars, nor the Canadian Geminis. I mean at the Sitges. Anybody? It’s the international fantasy and horror film festival. Yes, I indeed was in a horror film, made apparent by the poster that listed the title as
Cannibal Girls,
followed by the tagline “These girls eat men.” Ivan Reitman was kind enough to cast us in one of his first films. Not the many huge hits that followed after. Nope. No
room for us in
Meatballs
or
Ghostbusters.
But plenty of room for us to improvise the entire film of
Cannibal Girls
—“these girls eat men.”