It's All In the Playing Read Online Free PDF

an imaginary place above his head, and said, “Entities, we are going to need all the help we can get.”
    He walked out, throwing over his shoulder a parting shot: “What kind of reality have we created for ourselves, stress-wise!?!”
    I gathered my stuff, stood up, and looked into Colin’s eyes. I somehow was not surprised to see tears.
    “My real Maude, Ruth Gordon, died this morning,” he said. “That’s why I was late. I guess she decided to go so she could oversee this whole thing comedy-wise.”
    “Oh, Harold,” I said, knowing what her passing meant to him symbolically, particularly on this day. “She probably wants you to get on with integrating your spiritual talents. She can help you much more from where she is now.”
    Colin nodded, giving a lopsided smile. Knowing friends are around in spirit is all very well, but the grief of loss still hurts.
    I took his hand and we left together.

Chapter 3
       I t was the end of August and we were to begin principal photography in eight and a half weeks. We had no cast or director. Colin was leery of the directorial speed required in television. Seventeen setups (camera angles) a day, and usually more, leave the creative artist in a dust whirl of artistic frustration. There would be no time for reflection, or even for learning from mistakes. The clock would tick ominously as network “spies” reported artistic indecision and temperamental differences. Colin would need to shoot in half the time allotted a feature film.
    With that kind of pressure he concluded he couldn’t handle directing five hours of screen time. The luxury of feature film-making was pressurized enough.
    I had to agree with Colin when he passed on being the director, so we shelved that problem for the time being and went back to work to improve our first draft. We got a kick out of seeing our white pages turn the color of the rainbow (for every rewritten scene there is a new color so as to make rewrites clear).
    In L.A. we worked at Colin’s house off Benedict Canyon. His office was comfortable, homey, with woodpaneling, plush couches, and a picture over the fireplace of the cosmos. Somewhere in the galaxy of millions and billions of stars there was a speck with an arrow and the directive YOU ARE HERE. That about said it all. That picture always put our working sessions into proper perspective.
    Colin had a housekeeper named Alice who called me “Honey” and Colin “Mr. Higgins.” I’m still not sure what I did to create that reality. (Of course I’m sure. I like to be just one of the people.) Anyway, Alice made good roast chicken and could really shop for cookies and ice cream.
    She never answered the phone because she knew “Mr. Higgins” would pick it up out of insatiable curiosity anyway. That’s when I’d go bananas. He was always so polite and generous with his friends. While I was trying to hold a thought in my head that had to do with making a trance medium funny, I’d sharpen a pencil really loud until he hung up and I could make my point. He’d just laugh and say “Okayyyyy,” as though he’d been finished with that scene anyway.
    I had never collaborated with anyone before and neither had he. My rhythm was faster and more disciplined and driving. His was thorough and ploddingly specific. I was more demanding. He was more free-flowing. And both of us were focused. As we worked on the final draft, we continued our improvisational arguments.
    Colin had a real problem with some dialogue which had to do with looking up at the stars and calling them “zircon plums close enough to pluck.”
    “The words are too elaborate,” Colin said. “It sounds too poetic for a cold night in the Andes. How would Shirley say that?”
    I shrugged. “Simple,” I said, “since I’m an actress. It’s all in the playing.”
    Colin grunted sarcastically. “That’s your answer to everything.”
    “Yeah,” I agreed. “Just like life.”
    Addressing the director problem, Brandon