Streisand: Her Life by James Spada Page A
Authors: James Spada
Tags: Another Evening with Harry Stoones, Bon Soir Club, My Passion for Design, Ted Rozar, I Can Get it for You Wholesale and Streisand, Marilyn and Alan Bergman, Streisand Spada, Mike Douglas and Streisand, A Star is Born, Stoney End, George Segal and Streisand, Marvin Hamlisch, Dustin Hoffman and Streisand, The Prince of Tides, Barbara Joan Streisand, Evergreen, Bill Clinton Streisand, Ray Stark, Ryan O’Neal, Barwood Films, Diana Streisand Kind, Sinatra and Streisand, Streisand Her Life, Omar Sharif and Streisand, Roslyn Kind, Nuts and Barbra Streisand, Barbara Streisand, Barbra Joan Streisand, Barbra Streisand, Fanny Brice and Steisand, Streisand, Richard Dreyfuss and Streisand, Amy Irving, MGM Grand, Emanuel Streisand, Brooklyn and Streisand, Yentl, Streisand Concert, Miss Marmelstein, Arthur Laurents, Columbia Records, Happening in Central Park, Don Johnson and Streisand, Marty Erlichman, Judy Garland Streisand, Jason Emanuel Gould, by James Spada, One Voice, Barry Dennen, James Brolin and Barbra, Theater Studio of New York
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three-and-a-half-year grade-point average of 91. 016.
Finally she was free. Within weeks of her graduation she moved to Manhattan, her mother’s protests ringing in her ears along with her tinnitus. She and Susan Dwaorkowitz rented a tiny walk-up at 339 West Forty-eighth Street, next door to Allan Miller’s workshop, for $80 a month, and Barbara could barely contain her excitement as she prepared to look for work as an actress. She was sure she’d get a part straightaway, but if it took a little longer than she expected, she had a few hundred dollars left from what she had saved over the years from her pay at Choy’s Chinese. The nest egg, which she put into her first savings account, at the Seaman’s Bank, would provide her with the luxury of free time to make the rounds of auditions.
She typed up a resume that listed her height at five feet five, her weight at 1 10 pounds, and her type as either ingenue or character ingenue. She listed her schooling with Allan Miller, her summer stock work at Malden Bridge, and Driftwood. She fibbed that she had played Ellie May in Tobacco Road at the Clinton Playhouse and lied again that she has been the assistant stage manager at the Cherry Lane and had understudied Avril in Purple Dust. Then she set out on her rounds—after stuffing socks into her bra and toilet paper along her hips to give the illusion of a more voluptuous figure.
She found the auditioning process numbing, dehumanizing, mortifying. She would trudge through the cold, dirty streets of Manhattan, climb stairs to dinky little offices, and mill around with dozens of other would-be actors just to read for the walk-on part of a beatnik. The casting people would take one look at her and ask if she had done anything else professionally. “No,” she’d reply.
“Well, we have to see your work before we can hire you.”
“Why do you have to see my work?” she recalled asking them. “It’s a walk-on. I don’t even have to say anything.”
“We have to see some work.”
“How are you going to see my work if you don’t give me a chance to do the work?” But it was useless to argue. Over and over again she went through this charade, and whether she realized it at the time or not, the work prerequisite was just an excuse. Most c asting directors didn’t let her read because they didn’t like her looks. Even when she auditioned for a walk-on role as a beatnik for a television show, dressed in her trench coat and black tights, she was passed over. “I just had to look the part, and I looked the part but they said, ‘We have to see your work. ’”
When she went to an audition for a summer stock job with the New London Players in New Hampshire that April, she was allowed to read, but after she left, one of the owners turned to the others and said, “ She’s very talented, but God, she’s so ugly. What are we gonna do with her?” She wasn’t hired. Sometimes darker prejudices came into play against Barbara as well. Years after she became a star, someone sent one of her resumes back to her. A casting agent had scribbled across it, “ Talented. Who needs another Jewish broad.”
Barbara was devastated by the rejections. “I cried in every office,” she said. “I was humiliated—people looked at me like I was crazy. I could only bring myself to go to auditions twice a week.” Sometimes her tears hardened into anger. “Screw you!” she would yell at her startled judges. “I ain’t coming back and asking you for no work.”
She “made terrible enemies” this way, but she didn’t care. “My pride as a person was more important to me. I thought I’d rather be a hat designer than ask people for a job.” She stopped making rounds, but when her money began to run out, she needed some kind of work. Finally she was hired as a clerk for the Michael Press, a printing company on West Forty-fifth Street. She filed papers, made coffee, answered the phones. This was precisely
Finally she was free. Within weeks of her graduation she moved to Manhattan, her mother’s protests ringing in her ears along with her tinnitus. She and Susan Dwaorkowitz rented a tiny walk-up at 339 West Forty-eighth Street, next door to Allan Miller’s workshop, for $80 a month, and Barbara could barely contain her excitement as she prepared to look for work as an actress. She was sure she’d get a part straightaway, but if it took a little longer than she expected, she had a few hundred dollars left from what she had saved over the years from her pay at Choy’s Chinese. The nest egg, which she put into her first savings account, at the Seaman’s Bank, would provide her with the luxury of free time to make the rounds of auditions.
She typed up a resume that listed her height at five feet five, her weight at 1 10 pounds, and her type as either ingenue or character ingenue. She listed her schooling with Allan Miller, her summer stock work at Malden Bridge, and Driftwood. She fibbed that she had played Ellie May in Tobacco Road at the Clinton Playhouse and lied again that she has been the assistant stage manager at the Cherry Lane and had understudied Avril in Purple Dust. Then she set out on her rounds—after stuffing socks into her bra and toilet paper along her hips to give the illusion of a more voluptuous figure.
She found the auditioning process numbing, dehumanizing, mortifying. She would trudge through the cold, dirty streets of Manhattan, climb stairs to dinky little offices, and mill around with dozens of other would-be actors just to read for the walk-on part of a beatnik. The casting people would take one look at her and ask if she had done anything else professionally. “No,” she’d reply.
“Well, we have to see your work before we can hire you.”
“Why do you have to see my work?” she recalled asking them. “It’s a walk-on. I don’t even have to say anything.”
“We have to see some work.”
“How are you going to see my work if you don’t give me a chance to do the work?” But it was useless to argue. Over and over again she went through this charade, and whether she realized it at the time or not, the work prerequisite was just an excuse. Most c asting directors didn’t let her read because they didn’t like her looks. Even when she auditioned for a walk-on role as a beatnik for a television show, dressed in her trench coat and black tights, she was passed over. “I just had to look the part, and I looked the part but they said, ‘We have to see your work. ’”
When she went to an audition for a summer stock job with the New London Players in New Hampshire that April, she was allowed to read, but after she left, one of the owners turned to the others and said, “ She’s very talented, but God, she’s so ugly. What are we gonna do with her?” She wasn’t hired. Sometimes darker prejudices came into play against Barbara as well. Years after she became a star, someone sent one of her resumes back to her. A casting agent had scribbled across it, “ Talented. Who needs another Jewish broad.”
Barbara was devastated by the rejections. “I cried in every office,” she said. “I was humiliated—people looked at me like I was crazy. I could only bring myself to go to auditions twice a week.” Sometimes her tears hardened into anger. “Screw you!” she would yell at her startled judges. “I ain’t coming back and asking you for no work.”
She “made terrible enemies” this way, but she didn’t care. “My pride as a person was more important to me. I thought I’d rather be a hat designer than ask people for a job.” She stopped making rounds, but when her money began to run out, she needed some kind of work. Finally she was hired as a clerk for the Michael Press, a printing company on West Forty-fifth Street. She filed papers, made coffee, answered the phones. This was precisely
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