“Daniel will be brilliant, with or without prosthetics, I have no doubt. And my Mary will not look older than his Mr. Lincoln, I guarantee you. Not in any kind of lighting.”
But I also felt that some of Steven’s reluctance had little to do with my chronological years and a lot to do with my many years in the public eye, whether in television or film, whether in worthwhile projects or not. That it was my accumulated persona he would rather not lug into his film, that he’d rather find a Mary who could meet the audience as a fresh, blank slate.
“Steven, I know who I am, know the baggage I come with, and if I thought there was another actor to bring Mary to you—her age, her physicality, her emotionality and volatility—then I’d throw up my hands and walk away. But I’m telling you right now, this is mine and if you disagree, then, with all due respect, you’re wrong.” And before he could fire another shot, I tossed out, “Test me, Steven. How about that?”
“But Daniel’s not ready to do that. He’s in Ireland just beginning his transformation,” Steven explained.
“I’ll do it without him. Let me have wardrobe and hair, the whole nine yards, and test me.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Okay, Sal. You got it.”
Saturday, about two weeks later, looking vaguely like Mary Todd Lincoln, I stood on the floor of Amblin’s screening room at Universal Studios, where Steven’s offices are located. With Academy Award–winning cinematographer Janusz Kaminski operating a small video camera and Mr. Spielberg standing at his side, I delivered a two-page monologue from Tony Kushner’s screenplay.
Maybe I couldn’t wrap my mouth around the brilliant but difficult and newly learned dialogue, or maybe my concentration was strained because the actor I was working with was in reality a piece of tape stuck on the wall. Or perhaps I couldn’t quiet my heart and get out of my own way. Maybe all of the above, but ultimately there’s no excuse. As hard as I tried, I never lifted off the ground, only ran along the edges of the scene. You either take flight or you don’t. And that day, I didn’t. I knew it and Steven knew it.
When he called me at work a few days later, struggling to tell me how sorry he was, how he just didn’t see it, how he had put it against old footage of Daniel and how it just wasn’t going to work, I begged him not to feel bad, thanking him for his generosity and for giving me the chance. Turning off my phone, I sat down on my dressing room sofa, feeling as old and worn as it appeared to be. At least it was over, at least I didn’t have to feel anything for a while, until the day the film was finally cast, until the day someone else would be playing Mary and it would not be me. Dragging through the rest of the day, I kept telling myself to be grateful for what I already had, to focus on the work right in front of me. No matter that it was the same dialogue I’d been saying for the last five years, it was work. Brothers and Sisters was good enough. I was earning a living. I was lucky.
The next morning, as I was about to step into the first shot of the day, my phone rang. It was Steven again. Eagerly, he said that he couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation, couldn’t get it out of his mind, that he’d spent the day walking around the studio lot and finally… that he’d talked to Daniel, who thought that the tape was quite moving. At that point, I actually squealed, then stuffed my fist in my mouth. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled that Daniel had responded to the test or appalled that he’d seen it. “He wants to meet you,” Steven said, and before I had time to figure out what to say, he suggested that since Daniel was in Ireland, we should meet in the middle, fly to New York for a drink or a cup of tea.
By then, if there was air in the room, I no longer needed it. I had quit breathing altogether. “Okay” was all I could say.
“Great, let’s do it next week,” he said, and hung up. I stood, with both arms out straight, leaning against the big dirty window that looked down at Disney Studios below, until the second AD banged on my door, calling me to the set.
The following week I waited to hear about the Big Apple meeting and when it was to take place, hoping I could be released from filming. It wasn’t until ten days later, as I was dashing up the stairs from my dressing room to the production office, that I received a call from Spielberg’s assistant asking if I wanted to use the same hair and makeup people.
“For what?” I said. “A cup of tea?”
“Oh, no,” Christy said. “I thought someone had told you. Daniel felt Steven really needed to see the two of you on film together, so he’s agreed to come here. Hope that’s okay.”
Two weeks later, in the same rigged-up makeup room, I slowly became the vague version of Mary I’d been a short time before. I hadn’t met Mr. Lewis, didn’t even know where he was presumably going through the same readying routine as I was. The whole thing felt like a bride and groom sequestered out of each other’s sight until the big moment. With my dress overflowing the golf cart, almost blocking the driver’s view, I was once again taken across the Universal lot to Amblin, then guided to an office adjacent to the screening room’s lobby, and in a regal-looking high-backed chair, I waited—the corset as well as my instincts dictating my posture.
A sliver of sunlight broke through the blinds, beaming itself onto my throne just as I heard a shuffle of movement coming from across the lobby. Motionless in the Vermeer-like shaft of light, I kept my eyes on my hands until I felt the energy approach, and when I could wait no longer, I turned to face the figure loping toward me. Wearing his black top hat, a coat with sleeves that were slightly too short, and a wry smirk on his face—which I returned, smirk for smirk—he positioned himself at my side. Only then did I stand, give him my hand, and say, “Mr. Lincoln.” His face curled into a smile as he placed his lips on my hand, and just as Lincoln would have responded to his wife, he said, “Mother.” Did I hear a barely audible gasp from the many people who had faded into the shadows? I don’t know. But when I buried my face in his chest, whispering, “Thank you,” and he put his face in my hair, replying, “My honor,” I felt radioactive.
What followed was an hour-long improvisation of sorts, a blur in actuality. I’d done enough research to have a decent idea about the Lincoln-Todd relationship—as had D.D.L.—so we instantly became something. If not precisely the Lincolns themselves, then at least we were two actors unafraid to poke around in the right direction. When the filming was stopped and things were winding down, I thanked Steven and Daniel, and with Mary still clinging to me, I nodded to all the others, saying it was time for me to leave so they could talk amongst themselves. I then bundled my dress and my heart out of the room and back to the Malibu mountains.
Mary Todd and her Mr. Lincoln.
No matter the outcome, I walked away from it all feeling awake and alive. An hour later, as I stepped through the door of my home, the phone began to ring. “We’re both on the line, Sal,” Steven said. “We want to ask you together. Will you be our Mary?” Then Daniel: “Yes, will you please?”