For all the limos and star treatment, O'Malley, 40, reports that there is a flip side to moviemaking: long days, short tempers and lots of junk food, for starters. Here is her account of the time backstage, which, for better and worse, turned out to be "the experience of a lifetime."
I AM IN SUBURBAN PITTSBURGH, STANDING on the front lawn of a two-story white clapboard house that looks about 40 years old. In reality the house is three weeks old; the lawn is 24 hours old. Nothing is real except for the child lying prostrate on the sod screaming, "I am sick of doing this movie. I want to go home."
Work on the movie set stops dead. Everyone—the director, George Miller, actors Nick Nolte and Susan Sarandon, the crew, and the crowd of 50 or so hangers-on—turns in unison and looks at me.
I'm wishing that, like the lawn, the child were faux. But he's not. He's a real kid on a movie set, and he belongs to me. My son is playing the title role in this much ballyhooed picture. And I am: the Stage Mom.
There are many reasons not to want your child to star in a movie. Zack's father and I were able to think of them all. But in the end, when that child is given a coveted opportunity to act in a meaningful film with adults as talented as Nolte and Sarandon, it is hard to say no. "Wait until Zack's a teenager and hates you anyway," a friend tells me. "If you keep him from starring in a film with Susan Sarandon, he'll have a reason to hate you."
Sept. 2-6, 1991:
"We get to fly first-class because I'm a movie star," Zack announces at the airport on the way to Pittsburgh. [My husband] Dan sternly tells Zack he never wants to hear that kind of big-headed comment again. I take a more truthful approach and tell Zack he's right.
Of the money Zack earns for making Lorenzo's Oil, 15 percent will go to his manager, 10 percent to his agent and 28 percent to Uncle Sam. What is left, invested wisely for 12 years, may be enough for college. Personally, I give up half my year's income to be with Zack on location.
In the film, Lorenzo (and therefore Zack) goes bald as a result of chemotherapy. The application of a bald cap for Zack's preproduction screen test, as performed by makeup artist Fabrizio Sforza, is the equivalent of having a swimming cap cemented to your head. Before Sforza finishes—two hours later—the glue and latex begin to dry, pulling Zack's long hair. He dissolves into tears of pain. "Mom, please," he cries, "help me." Sforza, who speaks only Italian, tells Zack in pidgin English to shut up or he'll shave his head.
Outside of being terrorized by Sforza, fitted for contact lenses to obscure his vision and an car mike to slur his speech, Zack has had just one hour of preparation with his acting coach for his first performance. He's as unimpressive as any unprepared adult actor. I decide to rehearse his opening scenes with him myself.
By the time Miller previews Zack's work, it's aces, and he wants me to replace Zack's coach. "You get the best performances out of him," he says. I assume he means to hire me in an official capacity. I am wrong.
Sept. 9:
Day 1 of filming. A basket of goodies for Zack, worth, oh, $200, arrives from Universal. "Here's to the start of something great," the card reads.
Sept. 10:
Am I imagining it, or does Sarandon heave a theatrical sigh when Miller sends me onto the set with instructions for Zack? As we leave the set, I stop her. "I hope you'll speak to me if anything I do with Zack interferes with your work," I say.
"Thank you for telling me," she says coolly. "I'll let you know when you're in my way."
Sept. 13:
Lorenzo must interrupt his parents making love. With Zack behind a door, Miller confers with Sarandon and Nolte on what sexual position to use.
"I'm tired of the arching-my-back thing," Sarandon says wryly. "I've done that before. They settle for Sarandon on top and go to work—she clad in a nightgown, he in his skivvies.
"It's in the right place," Nolte announces.
"What is? The boy thing?" Sarandon jokes. Then she adds, "Don't take advantage of the situation."
"Well, I have to get a little something out of this," Nolte says.
Sept. 14:
Zack has been on call (ready to work) since 7 A.M. He has had five hours of school lessons with his tutor. At 7 P.M., Miller sends the adult stars home, but Zack has one more scene to do. Me lies down on the set, exhausted.
"He hasn't had a meal in hours," I tell an assistant director [AD].
"No problem," says the AD, pointing to a snack table littered with M&M's and Cokes.
"Dinner" I snap, "if you ever plan to get out of here tonight."
Sept. 17:
Today we shoot a pivotal scene requiring Zack to remember three speeches (using slurred speech), hunt maniacally through his toy box for a beloved sword, not look at the camera (which is about 18 inches from his face) and respond to Nolte on cue. I devise a game in which Zack tries to empty the toy box as fast as he can. Nolte tries to stop him. The result on film is potent.
Sept. 18:
Zack is ferocious. He goes limp outside the set house, throwing the aforementioned I-am-sick-of-doing-this-movie tantrum. It occurs to no one but me that Zack is exhausted from having worked far too late the previous night.
Miller is cut to the quick. "It's not too late to recast the movie," he announces to me and Dan, who visits the set every other week. I am too angry to speak. Dan replies honestly that he would be equally happy whether Zack continues with the film or goes home.
I turn the conversation to the unfinished business of my replacing Zack's acting coach. "Let me get this straight," I say to the film's producer, Doug Mitchell. "You have asked me to replace Zack's coach without screen credit or compensation?"
"That's right," says Mitchell.
I return to our house at 9 P.M. after 14 hours of work. At 3 A.M. Zack awakes and crawls into bed with me. He needs to be held. I awake having heart palpitations. Am I doing the right things for this fragile babe?
Oct. 9:
The past few weeks' filming has gone well. Miller pulls me aside and tells me that he saw fantastic video rushes of Zack's work. "It's not a child acting," he says. "It's a child who this is really happening to."
Zack talks in his sleep. The word he says is "Rolling!"
Oct. 15:
Today the Senate is voting whether to confirm Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court. Sarandon explains to Zack and her daughter Eva, now 7, what sexual harassment is. "It's like what Nick [Nolte] does to Eva on the set—all those gross kissy faces—if he wasn't joking, and Eva didn't like it, that would be sexual harassment."
"And I'd have to sue him," Eva says.
Nov. 4-5:
I think it was 19 takes. Finally a perfect one, and the continuity person whose job it is to ensure continuity of detail from shot to shot whispers to Miller that there was a "look to camera"—by Zack. At this point in his illness, Lorenzo cannot swallow, blink or move his body; in any case, a look at the camera will not do.
"Are you sure there was a look to camera?" Miller asks continuity.
"Yes."
"Are you sure? I didn't see it through the camera," says another of the crew members there.
Even the AD shows his impatience: "Haven't we gotten this yet?"
Take 20. "Action," Miller shouts.
Zack is overwhelmed with guilt for what may or may not have been his "look to camera." He believes the adult actors seldom make mistakes. "Their brains are just much bigger than mine," he explains.
Dec. 9:
It's the last day of shooting. Between takes, Nolte stands up and starts jumping on the bed. Zack joins in; Nolte sits down. Miller returns to direct the scene, and Zack gets chided for bouncing on the bed.
"You can't start jumping on the bed and expect Zack not to do it," Sarandon scolds Nolte. Zack gives them both Christmas gifts—a key chain to him, a vase to her. In Nolte's card he writes "To the silliest person in the world." To Sarandon: "Thank you for helping me."
May, 1992:
For five months, Zack and I return to our routine in Manhattan—I am writing; he is in school. Then Doug Mitchell calls from Australia and asks about Zack's availability to go to Kenya to do additional photography in June. Zack's manager haggles for hours on the phone to Australia over travel arrangements for us and a nanny.
June 23:
The first day of shooting in Kenya, and I missed it. I have amebic dysentery. When I'm not throwing up or having diarrhea, I'm stuck under this damned mosquito netting, trying to avoid being bitten by a malarial mosquito. And, hey, there's no reason you can't have dysentery and malaria at once—particularly when you vomit up your antimalaria pills.
June 26:
The last scene to be shot is Lorenzo explaining a painting he has made to his teacher—in Swahili. "How did you learn all that Swahili?" she asks him.
"My mom taught me by pictograms," he says.
Zack completes his work quickly. He claps me on the back. "You did a good job, Mom. Thank you."
"Thank you." I say, sounding a little surprised.
"Are you kidding? You were the biggest help of all. You always builded up my courage."
Twenty-four hours later I am diagnosed with malaria in Nairobi General Hospital. It is two hours before our flight leaves for London. The nanny calls Mitchell and asks whether, under the circumstances, I could travel first class. "He told me to tell you the shoot is over, he has no further responsibilities to you or Zack," the nanny reports. When the crew boards the vans for the airport, I am too sick to stand up. They leave without us.
All I can think of is getting back home. We make the midnight flight, but Zack develops a fever himself. I spend 19 hours lying on the floor of a 747. Zack sleeps. Back home, he is diagnosed with amebic dysentery.
July:
I am still in bed recovering when one of my idols, Oscar-winning director Bernardo Borlolucci, inquires about Zack's availability to shoot a movie in—where else?—India. I say I am honored, but a team of wild Kenyan oxen couldn't drag us to India just now. Zack's final journal entries are "We met Sweetie the calico cat" and "Some time on the set puked, but I forget when." He is proud of having starrod in a movie and of telling Lorenzo's story. Though Zack's character scores the highest audience approval ratings of any other in Lorenzo's Oil, the experience hasn't left him eager to film another drama. And me? All I'll say is, if anyone ever asks if your child wants to be in a movie, consider saying, "Thank you, no."
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