Copyright by Ann Bandazian 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005

Hollywood: Glitter--glitter--dazzle--dazzle--sparkle--sparkle. Every red blooded American girl and probably many boys dream of destination Hollywood where the most fantastic fame and fortune await for those bright enough and lucky enough to march confidently forward.

I had written three or four plays which had gone nowhere when I, we-- decided to move to the farm. For me it would be time to concentrate on the writing I'd always done. For Vazken, it would mean commuting and farming and restoring the ancient house with my clumsy but earnest help.

There was another very dramatic reason for moving to the farm which will be discussed another time.

We settled into an extremely primitive living situation with the old house uninhabitable and the addition still without heat or finished flooring. I created a tiny work area with my electric typwriter on a black lacquered secretary--lacquered in my Chinese period with drawer pulls purchased from a store in the Bowery in New York--with real drunks and before it became chic.

The play would be a slim time capsule based on some of the people--changed, of course--and the situations encountered in the early days of feminist awakening.

Its title would be, WOMEN ARE LIKE CATS.

A founding member of N.O.W.(the National Organization For Women) in Connecticut, I retired to the background two years previously. Burnout. I left my position as a medical assistant to a neurologist. For some odd reason I was always magnetized to working on the fringes of the medical profession. Hospital Medical Records, Receptionist for a Diagnostician on Central Park West in New YOrk City, a pharmaceutical house assistant librarian. Then back in Hartford, Connecticut--an assistant to Dr. Robert H. Hepburn (yes, Katherine's brother) and later Dr. John T. Hornblow.

The play didn't write itself. There were several variations before I called it finished and pushed myself to sending it to the Eugene O'Neill National Playwrights Competition. This particular competition was a dream made for me because it took place in Waterford, Connecticut a short thirty-five minutes from our farm. It was situated on the water in a heavenly spot. For me, Eugene O'Neill was a playwriting god--short on brevity but long on soul, intellect, emotion.

After a lifetime of "sorry-no," I was now blase and toughened to rejections and expected nothing different--even though I tried awfully damn hard to have a positive attitude because all those "mind-controls-all" gurus said it was more important than Jesus in getting a positive outcome to how one's life went.

For several seconds after I opened the envelope and read that my play was selected from thousands to possibly be among the final few to be read, it didn't immediately penetrate my consciousness that it wasn't an out and out rejection. It meant hope.

But once the contents of the letter was digested, my mind became a veritable Mardi Gras of euphoria and unchained fantasies.

Alas, alas- reality brutally intruded when I discovered my play didn't make the final heat. I plunged into a depression all too familiar to me. The wee chance I had wisped into the atmosphere. Gone. Totally gone. Where would I go from there?

I gloomed around for nearly a year and worked on a novel, Welcome to the Funny Farm. But some damnable Armenian tenacity wouldn't let go of the dream. The dream was still Hollywood. The truth was that I didn't know a soul in Hollywood. (Read- no influential connections.) Still I convinced myself that it would make a wonderful movie. Sure the cast was entirely female except for three male roles. At that time-- and more or less still-- Hollywood only made guy movies with one female character who would be either a virtuous woman or a flaming sexual virago.

Reading the want ads in a feminist magazine, it came to me that I might advertise for a director for my play. I described my Eugene O'Neill "almost win" and the subject of the play.

The very first interest in my play after I advertised in the feminist magazine was from Ruth Ann Wilson (a fictitous name) with an exciting Beverly Hills, California address.

She wrote: "I should like to read your play. I am an aspiring agent, and if I like the play, would ask a friend to read it who is one of the most successful agents in Hollywood who has contacts at all of the studios and networks. And if he likes it and is able to interest a producer, director or major talent--who knows? It would be a good idea to have a staged reading."

("Contacts at all of the studios and networks!")

("Is able to interest a producer, director or major or major talent!")

One could hardly blame me for feeling slightly giddy with those words. I wrote my fear to Ruth Ann that major decisions in Hollywood were made by men and my play was about women and featured a nearly all female cast. I also worried about the money to have a staged reading.

September 13, 1979

Received another letter from Ruth Ann. In this one she mentioned showing the play to Amy Chung (a fictitious name) who was participating in a program for novice directors. She said the money came from everywhere but mainly from various arts council endowments. She asked me to send the play to Amy Chung.

The next communication was from Amy Chung asking to see the play. I had the sense that I would madly be throwing my play up into the cosmos. But the truth was that I had no other takers. I wrote to Amy chung saying that I was excited to have an Asian woman interested in directing my play though there were no minority women in it. I sent her Act I scene 1 and an outline. And waited.

She wrote back that she wasn't Asian but descended from an old family in the South--South Carolina to be specific. It was her husband who was Asian and a cameraman. From what I had written, she had a problem with the play. It didn't seem to her that the lead character, Nan- showed growth by the end of the play.

I wrote back that I loved Southerners because they had an Armenian kind of warmth. I said that I was happy that she basically liked the play. I was puzzled about the word "growth" which could also mean cancer. (I knew what she actually meant--a happy realization of some truth and a good happy ending). I couldn't suppress being smartass. It was apparent that "growth" meant a lot to her. I was totally dense about writing a play with commercial appeal. Truthful rendering of flawed characters was most important to me who might even change for the worse. Heaven forbid.

But a staged reading in Hollywood was an opportunity I couldn't and wouldn't let drop. At this moment Amy was busy with a job that paid very little directing a Tennessee Williams play.

Chickening in my truth at all costs resolve, I wrote to Amy saying I would rewrite the play showing some kind of positive "growth" in the character of Nan by the conclusion of the play.

Did the great Eugene have to deal with character growth shit?

Amy wrote back,

"You have a good start on a contemporary woman's story set against the beginning of the feminist movement. It is timely and the ingredients for the main character's growth are there. At the end of the play she is taking her considerable energies to yet another project. Therefore, we ask, what has she learned? Once this is cleared up, the play will take on the focus it doesn't now have. As it stands, the crisis of the piece is largely undefined and unresolved."

There was much much more--depressingly much much more. She ended by saying that we needed a new, short, catchy title. I felt nauseated and suspected we'd end with an entirely different play--but I was willing to roll up my creative sleeves and give the woman what she wanted as she was more knowlegeable about the game than I.

Besides, I was getting older every day and what I had to say would be less and less important to the army of somnolent youth. I plodded on trying to address all Amy's complaints and suggestions etc.

Amy Chung described herself as an actress who wanted to direct. She spoke of her connection with a local theater backed by two famous actors and a young producer. At this point she was impressed enough to think we might have a staged reading at her friend's theater.

I polished and polished the play until finally I somewhat reluctantly pronounced it finished.

Nervously I called Ms. Chung. We had a cordial talk about my flying out to L.A. in the event she agreed to direct the play but we never discussed anything so crass as money or what might happen after the reading. It never occurred to me that actresses might want to be paid for time and work put into rehersals or the final staged reading.

My letter to Amy:

November 16, 1979

"The question you keep asking, "HOW DID NAN GROW?"

I know what you want and I'm having a philosophical problem. I think that Nan didn't grow. Nan's an idiot. Nan falls in love with the wrong men. She keeps finding herself leading revolutions. Is Nan a prisoner of her personality, genes or environment? Is change really possible? Nutrition is- What is growth? Cancer? Nan can grow more bitter, loving, distrustful, fanciful, forgiving, insular reclusive etc. I think Nan did acquire some political cynicism and media savy but was that growth? Good growth?"

February 14. 1980

Letter from Amy (and the play is no closer to Hollywood.)

"Last but not least, would you mull over the title? I know that women are supposed to bounce back and we don't and that's the point of Liberty's ordeal, but I don't feel that is the thrust of the play. See if you can find something that is descriptive of Nan or the period."

I dumped the "Women Are Like Cats" title. I could barely stomach, "Superwomen"--but Amy liked it. And that meant that Hollywood would probably like it too.

June 3, 1980

Letter from Amy:

"Hurray! At last, we're ready to go! I think the play is so good now that you should resubmit it to the Eugene O'Neill (if that's possible) with a staged reading pending in Los Angeles.

I want to send out invitations to the women's groups around here in plenty of time. I'm thinking of having an afternoon and evening session--both--so that the theatre folks can fit one or the other in. I have made a few minor edits. I'm eliminating the character of Gary, changing Sandra to Dede and also eliminating the 3 judges--all for casting reasons. I'm double- casting Dede with the factory woman, and Jody with the TV assistant, and I'm double-casting the men's roles. Makes it more manageable.

I'm so happy that we shall at last see your play live. It's exciting.

Since I'll need at least 12 more copies of the script at say 5 cents a page--I hope you won't mind my asking you to send me about $50.00 to cover the reproduction costs."

Best to you. I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. Is it possible?"

June 6 I sent Amy a check for the money she requested. On 6/11/80 I wrote to Amy Chung:

Dear Amy: Our plans, reservations are set. Arriving eleven something on Friday A.M. 6/27. Leaving July 1. No hotel yet but I'll settle that tomorrow. I like the Chateau Marmont for exciting film stars' historical reasons. Let's see. Affectionately, Ann.

From the journal: June 23, 1980

The family in Peekskill are very happy about the play. Haig said,

"I always knew you'd end up in Hollywood."

June 27

Finally got ourselves together. With two typwritten pages (and oral) instructions, left the house and dog with house and dog sitter, Tammy. To the airport. And now here we are in the plane in the air- we ordered two Bloody Marys and toasted in Armenian, "hahchoghouchoon." It simply means "success." The movie which we'd already seen in Willimantic was Coal Miner's Daughter. Didn't watch much of Loretta as I'd bought along Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Autumn of the Patriarch--each phrase a lyric.

Ordered another Bloody Mary with lunch.

The plane landed with a few irregular heart beats into the bosom of snow capped mountains. After getting our luggage, we went out to the street and smack into a palm tree. An actual real life palm tree! Naive but a thrill.

Two weeks before departure Amy had tried but we weren't able to get reservations at the Chateau Marmont. Then Amy suggested the Hotel Roosevelt which was in the process of renovation. In long ago movie magazines I'd seen pictures of famous Hollywood stars at the Hotel Roosevelt so I quickly agreed that a room there would be fine.

We bought film and tried to call Amy but the phone in our room wasn't functioning Another bad sign was a torn drape. We escaped to the street to examine the walk of stars. Why was the neighborhood so sleazy? What used to be Graumann's Chinese Theater was now Mann's--striking but bizarre.

Vazken drove to Laurel Canyon- Mulholland Drive and I took pictures of Vazk and the view. I was still spinning in a Hollywood spell. All the years of studying images in Photoplay and Silver Screen were present and amazingly alive.

Back at the hotel Vazken went to shower. He came out shouting,

"This isn't a hotel--it's a disaster!"

"I'm sorry, hon. All I could remember was the old days."

The water only ran hot water. In answer to his complaints, a Mexican jack of all trades appeared who performed some manipulation at the sink and the water became calm and behaved.

Vazken repaired the torn curtain with tape. There was a message that Amy called. After some failed attempts to get Amy, she finally returned my call to say we could all meet at seven for dinner.

While I was in the shower she called again to advise casual dress.

Amy and her husband Henry were in the lobby ten minutes early. She was pretty and wholesome looking--and I thought very unHollywood in tight white slacks and a flowered shirt. Henry was shorter than Amy, his lovely cheekbones making him quite handsome. He also was apparently quite younger than Amy. After introductions, she offered that Henry was shy.

We walked to Frank and Musso's--a landmark. She said, "People like David Brown and Zanuck sometimes dine here." It was a large, overcrowded restaurant with expensively priced mediocre food. Several times I looked about the room to see if I recognized any of the famous. If they were there, they were the unglamourous unpublicized famous.

Our talk was pleasant. I showed Amy and Henry pictures of our pre-revolutionary era house, barns, and animals. No wishing to bore but still showed a few of Lisa and Christopher. I told them about our son Christopher's stint doing summer stock. And I forced modesty in describing our guitar playing-singing daughter,Lisa. I capped our show biz history with tales of our best friends,Joan and Nelson and their son, Mark, who was already beginning to make a mark in serious theater.

With pride Amy showed me the postcards-- Henry's design-- the ones she had sent out. The handsome gold and crimson announced my play. Wait a minute--without my name! I was nowhere mentioned. What was I to think?

It read,

"Come to a staged reading--directed by Amy Chung."

My mind locked. I read no further. Amy lightly apologized for the error. The apology did nothing to remove the ugly arrow in my heart. But I would never argue that Amy was anything but sweet and perhaps naive. But naive in Hollywood? It was a puzzle. Amy rambled on about making minor changes. Henry ate little of his meal. I worried that we were boring him.

We paid the good sized bill as we planned--reasoning that it was the least we could do after all Amy's work. She said,

"The man who plays the doctor isn't very good. Not bad but not really good."

I soothed, "Maybe, he'll be better during the reading-"

But I couldn't soothe myself. The doctor's role was most pivotal.

Amy then offered the program for inspection. Though less flashy than the postcard, at least the information was correct. It was on heavy peachy beige paper folded in half and about nine by thirteen inches. At the top and before the title, it said in quotes,

"We honestly believed we could do it all and have it all without cost."

Then, "SUPERWOMAN" by Ann Bandazian. And underneath that, "A staged Reading Directed by Amy Robertson Chung."

The names of the characters with the actors then filled the rest of the page. On the back of the program there were acknowlegements and expressions of thanks to various individuals for tecbnical assistance, for Henry's art work and the use of the theater also a place for comments. The programs made me happy as we'd get some meaty thoughtful comments on the play.

Henry had an appointment at nine-thirty so we said goodbye. She-- and they-- kissed us which was quite Hollywood but nice.

Staying at the hotel one more night was madness. I looked for a phone book to find another hotel but there was none. The nightmare went on. Usually an insomniac, I fell on my uncomfortable half of the double bed and quickly fell asleep. Awoke twice. My total sleep was one and a half hours. Outside it was dark dark but the neon blazed mercilessly.

The gold and crimson postcard without my name continued to stab me. The program was nice. I had to be happy with half a loaf. My religion was sorely tested. I am a happy times Christian. Thank God, Vazken slept soundly as he needs sleep so often coming to my rescue. Soon there was loud calling and yowling howling laughter outside the hotel. The mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable. I tried sleeping on the floor. That was no better. At four-thirty I amazed myself by dropping off to sleep on the couch and got two hours more sleep. I could function better with three and a half hours of sleep than one and a half.

Once alert we both knew our immediate priority was finding another place to stay. As we drove down Sunset Boulevard, I spied the Chateau Marmont. I said,

"Vazk, Vazk please drive up."

"But we couldn't get a reservations there."

"I know but I'm going in anyway-"

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