Sleep and Other Luxuries.

The glorious bedroom of the Medici suite at the Fairmont on Knob Hill.

Well, it’s official, the film “Scream at the Devil” is, as they say, ‘in the can.’ Though of course, ‘on card and logged into the computer’ is more accurate these days. It’s strange to make a film without actual film, but hey, times change. And speaking of change, and time, I have a new book to write!

We had a blast during the shooting, and when it was over, well after dawn on a Saturday morning, I went to bed, leaving the crew to whoop it up around my pool until all hours of the early afternoon. For the next few days, I took my daughter to school, and then went to bed again. Now I’m up in San Francisco and I’m still not sure when I’m supposed to sleep or get up, mostly though, it’s really nice to get into bed.

Especially in a suite at the Fairmont, a little congratulations gift from my amazing mate. Let me tell you about those five star sheets. If you are a man and you are not a biker, a swimmer, or a cross dresser, then I’m sorry, because you will never know the joy of that egyptian cotton on freshly shaved legs. Mmmm. It’s, frictionless, and yet, so fluffy.

Writing is a solitary business, except for editors, of course, and there’s nobody to screw up your work with bad lighting or silly sound design. But a film is another animal, (perhaps ‘zoo’ is more the mot juste) and it isn’t over when we call wrap! Now we get to put the film together, shot by shot, and add in special effects, sound and music. This, my friends, is where the movie is made or lost. It just doesn’t matter how good my performance is if the the editor has no sense of timing or drama. I can manifest all the fear of Satan I want, but if the composer puts a spritely polka underneath it, the tension, we can assume, will be lost. Post production, almost more than the visuals themselves, tell the audience where to look and what to feel.

So once again, I come back to the refrain that a film is something we do with a group of people and no one person is more important than any other. I did have one ‘actor’ experience on this film, where the actor thinks that it’s all about them, and I swear I wanted to stab them. Perhaps that’s because I was holding a butcher’s knife at the time.

Here’s the deal, do not—ever—show up on a set without knowing your lines and call yourself a professional. What would people think if the camera assistants showed up, and then began to figure out how to pull focus? You would fire them and get someone who knows what they are doing and doesn’t waste everyone’s time. When you keep fifty people waiting while you get your shit together, whether that’s knowing your lines, or building up to a emotional point, you have not done your homework, and you are not good at your job.

Period.

In any other job, you would be ostracized at least, and eventually fired if you did it more than once, yet in film, actors are coddled and even ‘bad’ behavior has come to be expected and accepted by the unwitting crew. Not that anyone behaved badly on “Scream” far from it, we had a terrific group of people and I’m lucky to have a bevy of new friends, but you get my rant, uh, drift.

One of the things I’m most proud of in my acting career is the fact that almost every director I’ve ever worked with has worked with me more than once. There’s been a few I declined to work with again for a variety of reasons and, I’m sure, a few of them who are more than content to continue in their careers without me, and that’s fine. Personalities happen. But I hope to hell I was on time, prepared, and easy to work with. It’s my job to make their job easier, not harder, to Serve the Piece, and the most important thing to remember in a film or TV show, or play, or any job actually, is—Am I doing the best thing for the overall result? For the Company? For the charity? For the school? Whatever it is you do. The question should never, ever, ever be—Is this the best way to get more for me?

Because it isn’t about any one person. Just like life, just like families, offices, countries, just like…fill in the blank. We are in this together.

I had a wonderful, exhausting, exhilarating, draining, and heartfelt experience with this group of people, and I’m so glad to have met all of them. It was my first experience where most of the cast and crew were younger than myself, and it was really very cool to be the ‘mom’ to everybody, and to see so many of them at the beginning of what will be very long and rewarding careers.

As far as the sleepiness is concerned, it’s understandable. Just consider this; not only did I work 13 hour days, or nights, as the case may be, but I put myself through an emotional sieve. To recreate all the insanity and sorrow, I went through the equivalent of five funerals, four near-death experiences, and a week’s worth of cocaine paranoia.

While I hope you have experienced none of these things, if you’ve been through even one, you’ll know how exhausting it can be. No wonder the sheets at the fabulous Fairmont are singing me a lullaby.

And now, back to mom-hood, and writing. I owe a sequel to “Invisible Ellen” by the end of year and I’m not really sure what that will be about yet. Multiple careers are a blast, but I do sometimes feel like I need someone to turn me in the right direction. Point and shoot. It’s a question of focus, but only of that. Even as I write this, I feel ideas forming, stories lurking, and plots unfolding. The blurriness is starting to clear. Oh, there she is, Ellen, and she’s beckoning, “Come on, lazy bones, write me!”

Gotta go, darn, I’ll miss this duvet.

Do what you love until you are exhausted, and then, let yourself rest, you earned it.

Shari, June 12th, 2013.

Two Good Reasons to ‘Scream.’

May12

My makeup artist’s station. I’ll spend a good bit of time here!

And…they’re off!! Day one of principle photography of “Scream at the Devil” was a gem. We got some amazing footage, and I finally got to sink my teeth into an amazing role.

I love emotional work, but I have to be honest, I never really cared for the melodrama of the soap work. It was just too prefabricated for my taste, not to knock anyone else’s guilty vice! I know many people love the genre and with good reason, it’s a blast to get involved in the long running stories, but as an actress, it was my least favorite medium.

One of the things about film work that I love is the fact that you shoot out of order, it sort of isolates the scenes so that I can focus on that moment, but this may be the most challenging version of that I’ve ever taken on. Now imagine this; I’m playing a schizophrenic with multiple ‘episodes’ of dementia. So, sometimes I’m lucid, but often I’m not, it runs like increasing waves. Add into that that we shoot per location and supporting actors who are scheduled in. In other words, all my scenes in the kitchen with Eric Etebari will be shot in one day, all my scenes without him—another. There are kitchen scenes throughout the movie. Tony Todd, who plays the compassionate police detective, is only working one day, so we shoot all his scenes on Tuesday, beginning, middle, and the final shot of the movie.

Just keeping track of what wardrobe I’m in is a challenge. (Thankfully not mine, that’s the wardrobe department and the script supervisor’s job.) Then I add in my emotional roller coaster ride, estimating which loop-de-loop I’m jumping on and off on. At last I have a point of reference to work off for the rest of the filming. I know my level here, therefore, I can gauge my level there.

And it’s a blast. I’m tearing through this ride with my hands in the air whooping. It’s been a long time since I’ve worked on a film set, and I wasn’t sure I was eager to go back, but at one point I just looked around at all the craziness and people and equipment, and frenzy and thought, “This is fun.”

A couple of my favorite moments: I was standing near the kitchen counter in wardrobe, barefoot, and I accidentally knocked a glass off the counter, it smashed all around me. The gaffer, (lighting director) shouted, “Don’t move” So I stood, frozen on one leg, as he crossed to me, wrapped his arms around my thighs and lifted me. He moved me to safety and set me down, like I was a light stand. It was hysterical.

The FX designer, was watching the video playback of an effect we created where my spine expands, this is the guy who has worked on every movie from Jurassic Park to Men in Black, to…well, you name it, and he actually shuddered a little and said, “That was really creepy.” So funny.

There are notes all over location that read things like, “This is a home, be respectful. Pick up your trash.” etc. There are signs on doors that read, “Wardrobe” “Makeup” etc. On the camera department, where they keep the incredibly expensive lenses and cameras, the printed sign reads, “Camera department, No admittance by anyone other that Camera Operators.” Underneath it, scribbled in pen, someone wrote, “Except Shari, she can go anywhere she wants.”

I love those little things. It made me laugh, and it’s so fantastic to work with a crew filled with enthusiasm and talent. My husband is truly remarkable in the way he inspires and complements everyone, it’s why he brought so many people up through his theatre that have gone on to great things, but still love theater arts. The crew is watching him work, realizing they can trust him beyond their own vision, they are watching the monitor and muttering that it already looks like a 5 million dollar movie.

Sure, people get tense, the testosterone runs high, I have to remind the first assistant director, (whose job it is to run the set) that I’m working here and they need to settle down and stop shouting at everyone to hurry right before I have an on screen melt-down. But ultimately, we are all working for a common goal, what a wonderful feeling.

And it’s so cool what you can do with more creativity and energy.

So, a short blog today, as I have a script to study and an insane week coming up, but here’s my note for today.

Do it. Be creative, learn your craft, be ready, positive, and always, always be a part of the solution, not the problem. Stop shouting, don’t blame, fix, listen, look for ways to help, not just in the job assigned to you, respect everyone else, and enjoy it.

Put your hands in the air, raise your eyes, and shout at the sky, just for the joy of it.

Shari, May 12, 2013.

When it Rains…I Love It!

Apr16

The view from my front porch where I won’t be spending much time in the next few months!

Okay, I’ve been hesitant to write a blog since my return from Italy and I figured out why. I miss it and I think it was my way of prolonging the experience.

But, like so much in life that we look forward to with such excitement, we must learn to look back on it with fondness and gratefulness. I feel so thankful for my time in Venice, yet it is only with the promise that I will return that I can ease the gentle twist on my heart that is so much like home sickness.

Of course, we spent a good deal of time filming while we were there, and got some amazing footage. Venice in the snow, churches of remarkable beauty, streets that echo the footsteps of a thousand years and more, and now we are back and into full scale pre-production for the shoot of “Scream at the Devil.”

And not just that, but while I was in Venice I sold a new book! The hardcover of “Invisible Ellen’ will be out spring summer of 2014.

Yep, 2014. Here’s what non-writers don’t know. I wrote the book, I worked with an editor on my own, I had it copy edited, it sold—and now the work begins.

The book was picked up by a senior editor at Penguin. Nita has been around for a while, she was so excited about Invisible Ellen that she bought it in two days. I think that’s a record, my agent had to ask her twice what book she was calling him about, he’d never had that happen before, and that’s all great. But this is one savvy woman, and her notes are both insightful and extensive.

So I have 400 plus pages of homework, and every note she gave me is good, complex, and requires major thought, creativity and old-fashioned hours of work.

Yea!! I do love this part, it’s intimidating at first, but as I go, I usually realize that what seems like a major story changer that will require massive rewrites can actually be condensed into touching up a few segments. I should be able to get it done in a month.

Except of course, I’m producing and acting in a film at the same time. Yesterday we had our leading man tell us that he’s booked a major movie for some of the same dates as our filming, and that’s all good for us, publicity wise, but when you’ve packed the majority of a film into 15 days, and scheduled cranes, jibs, dollies, camera packages, crew, makeup, special effects, other actors, locations, reworking the schedule is equivalent to putting your good china in a large wooden box and shaking it really hard, then sorting out the pieces and gluing them back together.

So…not a lot of time for delving back into Ellen’s very unique and complex story.

Yep, when it rains, I say, bring it.

I don’t know if you are like me, but I find that the more I have to do, the more I get done. So, here’s my blog wisdom for the day— when it comes, take it on, you will find a way.

Oh, yeah, and also, because we had to slide the film shoot, on top of everything else, I insisted that we be done filming in time for younger daughter’s graduation and my older daughter’s move-out day from college.

Because nothing is more important than living your life. I didn’t take 10 years off of TV and film to raise my girls to miss those landmarks now. I love acting and writing, and being a mom and a wife. I will do each of these things to very best of my ability.

So, here it goes, ask, receive, do. Success isn’t the job you have, it’s how well you do it.

And do it with joy, what else is there?

Shari April 16th, 2013

Laughter in Hallowed Places.

Mar18

Walking through the sea in St. Marks Square.

A special month is engraved now in my heart and mind. Every month is special, of course, but the blessings of time in this city have once again charmed and enthralled me.

I leave with so many wonderful memories of time with my daughter and husband, too many to try to share or write down, I wish I could, but those are mine, and you shall make your own.

Venice itself is a priceless museum, a moment in time, evolving and frozen, the people here have exuded their class and enthusiasm like some invisible atmosphere, their love of life and sense of wonder are contagious, and Joseph and I are, as always, infected, saturated with the germs of life and laughter.

I have fabulous pictures, of course, but one thing I will always remember, and the suggestion of which will produce waves of sense memory, are the smells. Yes, sometimes Venice smells of the sea, of tides, of moisture, of mossy damp, but as you walk, ah, as you walk.

We exit our apartment and the warmth of radiated heat interspersed in the moist air of the marble stairwell greets us. We open the huge wooden doors onto the street and the canal and the bakeries with their yeasty love assault us. The wind brings us hints of the sea and the marsh, inviting, secret scents. We cross a stone bridge, listening to the chatter of joy and the calls of greeting and pass a tiny shop in a narrow brick alleyway, where everyday, all day, they bake fresh pizza rustico. This is not the delicious thin version so often served here, but thick, bread-like slabs smeared in sauce and cheeses and every delicious accompaniment you can imagine.

As we pass it we move on to the square, hitting the open avenue where each evening the locals ‘promenade.’ Many a twilight found us seated at a café table with an aperitif in hand, a bowl of salty, crisp and thin, homemade potato chips at our fingertips, watching the ebbing tapestry of life. Children on scooters and rollerblades, friends calling out enthusiastic “Ciao!”s and every version of intense conversation moving or still in the constant flow of people, conversations that take more than just words to participate in, they take punctuation of hands, rolls of eyes, symphonies of syllables and intonation.

And nearby, they serve hot chocolate, not hot chocolate like we do, thin as water, but thick, melted chocolate with fresh cream, dense as snow, laid over the top with a spoon. This is a treat so rich it must be served not on a plate, but in a mug.

And on it goes. The smell of rich sauces cooking on every other corner as the locals prepare their dinners of the richest ingredients bought daily from stalls on the street. Ripe tomatoes, basil grown in pots, never dried, sweet peppers, onions pulled from the earth yesterday, meats from a tiny butcher, who sells only what is best, from cows contentedly grazing only days before. Preservatives are scoffed at, as is pasteurization or freezing, and the result is not only taste, but health. It was hard, when we visited the cemetery, to find a grave of someone less than 80. I think that should tell us something.

As for the treasures of Venice, the art, the architecture, the city itself, these things are remarkable, irreplaceable, and indelibly printed in our hearts.

But it’s the simple things that I remember the most. So I will leave this city with this story.

We were visiting the Scuola de Rocco. One of the most famous and magnificent buildings here, the entire interior is decorated by gigantic painting by Tintoretto, carved wood walls and seating for the great members of that great Union that are works of art in themselves. On the top floor is a room filled with their religious relicts, goblets, crosses, grails, each of them wrought of gold and silver and priceless jewels. Many of them are so ornate that they required years of an artisans’ life to complete. A guard sits sentry at all times. One of these objects could feed a village for a year, and that doesn’t take into account the artistry and skill of their beauty.

We were not alone as we walked through this room. A young father was holding his daughter, she was probably between 2 and 3. As they went from stunning treasure to priceless work of art, I heard her childish voice ask, “What’s that Daddy?”

The father was English, and with typical patience and grace, he answered, “That’s the fire extinguisher, darling.”

And the sound of my laughter in the hallowed, hushed room rang out so that the long dead craftsmen must have stirred in their heaven and smiled down at us.

Sometimes, it’s the treasures, and sometimes, it’s the thing you wouldn’t usually notice that you carry with you.

I take home the scents and the weather and the laughter of Venice. If you ask me why I chose to turn down that narrow passageway, with no idea where it would lead me, I will answer you, “Because the wind invited me.”

Ciao, Venezia, a la prossima volta.

Shari March 18^th, 2013.

Gorillas in the Mists of Venice

Mar10

A view of the filming from the bridge.

And what I see when I’m ‘alone.’

What’s that? There in the fog? Look closely, that way, in the near distance, a movement, a murmur, the wildlife stirs.

Oh, that’s us. We’re shooting a film here sans the rest of our crew. The whole big scene, assistants, grips, FX team, assistant directors, catering, etc, will all be hunkered down for a few weeks of intense group participation back in LA, and that will be tons of fun, no doubt, but today is a very different animal.

Because for this segment of the film, probably the first three minutes, it’s just me, the director, and the director of photography. It’s a raw way of working, but let me tell you, it has its definite advantages.

First, as an actress. Yes, I’m doing my own makeup and hair, and keeping track of my own wardrobe, not very well, by the way, I won’t look as pretty or be as well lit, but that’s okay, this film isn’t a vanity piece, and on the other hand I don’t have a team of people in my face picking and fussing at me with spray cans, lint rollers and brushes right up until the director says action, which, when you are doing a scene where you are beginning to see the devil in your real life, helps I think.

So much of acting is about just being able to be alone in a crowd. Being capable of not seeing what is right in front of your eyes, but instead what you imagine and mentally produce. The more I think about it, the two most valuable qualities to have as an actor are probably a fantastic fantasy life, and emotional detachment.

Here’s an example. I’m shooting a scene in my hotel room in Venice, it’s a very intimate phone conversation with my estranged husband, (played by the fabulous Eric Etebari, who will shoot his part much later back in LA) I don’t have him giving me the lines, and the director is busy, so I have to just memorize my part, and ‘hear’ his lines in my head. Meanwhile, the DP is constantly checking the focus on the camera because the camera is panning and moving in as the scene continues.

Do you have any idea how hard it is not to look at someone moving suddenly in your eye-line? To stay fixed in a tense, emotional moment when someone is waving a hand a foot from the camera? The combination of ‘forgetting everything’ and ‘being in the moment’ is a dichotomy that is extremely unnatural.

But, hey, that’s what I do.

A huge part of being a good actress means being technically good. By that I mean that you know what the framing is on the camera and visualize how to best fill it, you match your hand and head movements so that the editor can cut between the master and the close up. You make sure you are in your light, even if that means a fraction of an inch turn of your head. You are careful not make any unnecessary sound that might mess up the audio. You sit into the shot and place your face in the exact inch that means you will be in focus. You pause when a boat in the canal outside sounds it’s horn and then repeat the line so that it is ‘clean.’ All in a days work.

Now add to that, shooting in a city packed with tourists with nothing to do but try to see what’s going on, and locals who try to get in the picture. It’s hysterical really. We got to the point where we would set up the camera facing the wrong direction. The Italians, always on the phone, would find a place to settle themselves directly in the shot, then, when they were ensconced, at the last minute we would swing around and I would move to the other side so that we could get the shot even amidst the indigenous flora and fauna.

And there you have it, Gorilla filmmakers in the mists of Venice.

And if I must say, we got some amazing footage. Atmosphere and emotion and history that we could never have achieved back in good ol’ Hollywood.

So for you actors out there, my message today is “be flexible.” Don’t expect everyone to be completely silent and still and cater to you. It won’t happen, not even on the biggest sets. Other people have jobs to do too, and you need to respect them as well. When the sound guy lowers the boom to six inches over your head to catch your whisper, don’t look at it, and don’t even think about it. Yes, you will see the grip angle the reflector card as you step in to your close up, yes you will see the first AD cue the extras to walk behind you. But you must stay in your own dream.

Forget them all, and remember everything. Be in the moment emotionally yet intellectually perform a thousand tiny physical tasks. That’s my advice for today. Whether you are shooting with two people on a busy street, or a crew of hundreds on a sound stage.

You will never be alone, but we must believe that you are.

Meanwhile, back in the jungles of Italy, in between shots, I smile at everyone, help the elderly man down the stairs of the bridge when our camera is blocking the railing, listen to the bells of the cathedrals tolling in their fullness, and remind myself again how lucky I am.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Shari Venice, Italy, March 10^th 2013.

The Decade of the Donna.

Mar5

On the ‘street’ near my apartment in Venice. Note the respectful manner of the man behind me.

Today I tried to add up how much time I’ve spent in Italy. Six months on a mini-series, 3 months on a film, plus various other working trips to shoot advertisements, commercials, then of course vacations, this visit alone I will be here a month.

So…probably about a year and a half in total. Now, this is over maybe…thirty years? And let me tell you, things, they have changed in those three decades.

Mostly the Italian men and they way they behave. Of course, the cat-calling and licentiousness were always worse in Rome than in Venice, just as construction workers might be more vocal in New York than in, say… Atlanta. Environments, not to mention a heritage of imported culture, make people behave differently, so it’s hard to judge improvements in one off of another. Therefore, we will try to delineate.

One of my first visits to Italy was when I was 18, an ultra-blonde model in short-shorts. How did I know I was goose bait? Nobody ever pinched me in the states, not even in New York, and I always dressed that way, it was the eighties. On that trip, to make matters both better and worse, I was with my sister, two years younger and universally acknowledged as the Shattuck sister with ‘the body’ in the family. She’s also thankfully a bit tougher than me. I remember being with her in Venice and leaning down to look in a window. I felt a whoosh of air over my back and turned to see a young man on his butt on the sidewalk shaking his head in disbelief. Turning the other way, I saw my sister shaking out her hand, she’d decked the guy for trying to pinch me. Served him right.

When I shot my first film in Rome, I was probably about 26 or 7. The film was called “Arena.” My character’s dresses were tailored for me to fit my then still frequently-seen-in-lingerie-ads body to within a quarter inch. My hair was no longer platinum, but still blonde, and piled full. Suffice to say, that on that film I was hired to sing, act evil, and be the bombshell.

Of course, I didn’t leave the set and hit the streets in full makeup and tight dresses. For one thing, I didn’t have my sister with me, and for another, you don’t have to tell me to put on some damn clothes more than five or six times when in the company of licensed Italian males. I knew by now that exposing anything above the knee or below the neck in Rome would have been begging for death by testosterone. As a result, I only went out wearing a bulky coat and a hat, (thankfully it was winter) but I still had that blonde hair and the basic shape of something with a waist.

And in Rome, that was all they needed. I was hooted at, whistled at, pinched, grabbed and fondled. And that was when I was with a friend. Going out alone, especially after dark—which you might sniff at, thinking I was inviting abuse, but most people, I believe, consider early evening the traditionally appropriate time for, oh, I don’t know…dinner—was just plain impossible No, that’s not a strong enough word, it was infuriating and left me limp with the need to punch one of those arrogant, macho assholes right in his kissy-smacking face. I vowed to never again visit a Latin country without my baby sister.

One night, I was grabbed so many times before I’d made it two blocks that I finally spun around and took swing at a guy in the middle of a crosswalk. He ducked it, but left in a hurry. I returned to the hotel and told the concierge, almost in tears, how badly the men behaved and how awful it was. This cultured, dignified man looked at me with a complete lack of understanding and said, “But it’s a compliment, yes?”

I’m not sure exactly what the voltage was of the vengeful lightning bolts that shot from my eyes when I glared back at him, but it was enough to make his pupils pop forward like a cartoon and his hair stand on end before he suddenly found something really important to do behind his desk.

I was even leered at by the police, so no help or surprises there. The feeling of being abused and discounted as a human being is something that I will never forget. I can still feel the rage and the fury now. How the Italian women put up with it, I will never know. Not all the men were like that of course, please don’t be offended if you are Italian and you behaved like a gentleman. There are plenty of you out there, but I’m just saying that the first thing my Italian girlfriends taught me was how to swear at an offensive man in the street. I remember most of it—pretty rancid stuff, but standard survival procedure for a single girl on the streets of Rome.

But apparently my friends teamed up with other Italian women and decided enough was enough, because things began to change. I noticed it more and more when I returned year after year. There was less leering and more appreciative nodding. I was actually thrown off, ready for a fight that didn’t come. Like taking a swing and not connecting, you lose your balance. It left me off kilter, I would gear up to face off with a group of approaching street venders and then they would just smile and said “Ciao.” I felt like I’d been on a boat for too long and the ground was moving when it should be still. It wasn’t unpleasant, just disorienting. Who were these guys?

Then, a few years ago, my husband and I brought our daughters to Italy. In Rome, the shameless catcalling was much less frequent, but hubby still kept a close eye out, walking behind the girls, then 9 and 14 watching for the occasional man he caught sneering and cracking his knuckles to prepare for a pinch. Too focused on my daughters, the man would be caught off guard by my meaty hubby when he barked a loud, aggressive, “Ciao.” But after one quick, surprised glance up at him, (my husband has a look that I would best describe as ‘serious,’ not a man to pick a fight with) and the would be fondler’s hands would dive back in his pockets and the puckering kissy-mouth turn to innocent whistling as he suddenly found something else really important to do.

We continued on to Venice, where the behavior of the male population, traditionally an improvement over Rome, was none-the-less also proportionately better. At one point, our girls were crossing a bridge ahead of us and a group of handsome Gondoliers turned and watched them appreciatively, but respectfully. Another group of younger boys on the other side of the bridge looked up, saw the girls, and very politely burst into applause.

That was sweet, I thought. No lady minds an accolade. I wanted to wave and bow and say, “Thank you, thank you, no really you’ve been too kind. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.” They are, of course, my babies.

And on this trip, though only in Venice, my gorgeous, blonde14 year old was not once treated with anything but chaste kindness. Hallelujah.

So attitudes have changed here in Italy, yet something feels not quite right, I sense a disturbance in the force, a kind of absence of malevolent spirit. It’s odd, that vacancy, and it took me a while to place why I would miss something so egregious as bad behavior. And then I got it. I don’t miss it, but I never got an apology. As glad as I am that the character of the Italian men has evolved and classed up, it just isn’t right, this growing equality. I mean, can we move from enduring cave man techniques straight into accepting them as gentlemen?

I think not. History tells us that there is something between abuse and acceptance. A period of anger, of retribution, of carefully planned espionage and revolt, these are the things that result in real social change.

The women need a turn. I refuse to accept that the men just get away with years of behaving abominably, that they pay nothing for past sins. I’m a Scorpio, I don’t forgive without a little preliminary revenge, think of it as a blood type. So, after careful consideration and many secret meetings with the females of this fine country, here is our master plan.

We get a decade.

There are many beautiful women in Italy, I mean some real goddesses. But, the percentage of hot women to hot men is tiny. Now when I use ‘hot’ here, I mean in the magazine-slash-TV mass-consumption sense, because of course, there is beauty in so many different kinds of looks, but for the purposes of this blog we’re talking ‘hot’ in that socially stupid, foot slapping, tongue lolling, crotch seam-adjusting, ‘there’s no telling where all my money went but she was wearing most of it when she ditched me’ kind of way.

Yes, there are ‘hot’ Italian women, but a much larger percentage of the men in Italy are frigg’n smok’n. I mean, well, most of them; the bartenders, the guys unloading the sodas from the barges, the garbage men. Sweet Cesar, I’m talking searing dark eyes with lashes any woman would kill for, perfect olive skin, Roman noses, and full mouths, strong jaws. You know, the classic Roman wrestling sculpture.

So, we propose that the ladies get to hoot and holler and make kissy faces, and pinch bottoms, and grab at whatever they want for ten years.

I mean, it seems only fair.

And you know me, I’m all about justice.

We’ve decided that all the single women will start behaving badly tomorrow, tourists get to play too. Thankfully, I’m happily married to my manly man, and now that my revolution planning work is done, I will busy myself making sure he knows how much I appreciate him.

The weird thing is, I’m just not sure that the men will mind being leered at and grabbed. But, hey, I’ll feel better just knowing the ladies are finally getting theirs.

So pucker up girls, get ready to squeeze.

The decade of the Donna is upon us.

Shari, March 5, 2013

Cities of Lace and Glass.

Feb28

The colorful island of Burano, where the world’s most beautiful lace is still made by hand.

Though I have visited both islands many times, today was the first time I’ve visited the museums on Murano and Burano, two unique places that share the lagoon surrounding Venice.

On Murano, which has produced some of the world’s most fabulous glass, the Museo de Vetri, (glass) works in chronological order. The first room holds glass from the ancient Romans. I was immediately arrested by a large, thin, clear vessel, maybe twenty four inches high, bulbous and tinted with clear blue marbling, which read on the small card, “dal I secolo.”

From the first century.

That’s a year that doesn’t even have a one in front of it, our century has a twenty begins with a twenty.

That’s a piece of glass twenty centuries old, my friends. Twenty times one hundred years, this delicate, hand-blown piece of glass has survived, intact. Our country is two centuries old, this fragile, graceful pitcher has survived ten times as long as the United States of America, which we think of as so solid, so superior, so unbreakable.

Later, on Burano, we saw lace as old as five hundred years, incredibly intricate, woven of silk-thin fiber into patterns of birds and flowers, angels and demons, saints and martyrs. Still, in the light from a window, old women sit and work, twisting fibers so frail into art with infinite patience that will soon be beyond the skill of those who will come after them.

I was stunned by the honor of standing witness to these precious things. Speechless that these objects, so seemingly fragile and delicate, crafted by hands and eyes that died so many generations ago, could still be seen by my living eyes today, things you thought too frail to imagine surviving even a lifetime, have persevered for millennia.

Yet, sometimes it’s the way of the world. That which we consider the most fragile is in fact, stronger than we know, capable of weathering the most inconceivable tests of time.

Just like life. For often the most delicate of things are the most enduring—love, innocence, hope, these things continue in spite of all the cruelty, bullying, the crushing blows dealt by ignorance and violence, brutality and indifference.

A lasting relationship is not so different from that lace, it is woven of so many threads, every smile, wink, every individual glance of compassion representing one of those threads. Sometimes, when handled by the unskilled or the unknowing, they grow tangled, knotted and gnarled beyond repair, but sometimes with care, attention, and infinite patience, they can be unsnarled, and still other times even the mistakes can make a beautiful pattern, a new, yet enduring one.

And our years on this planet are not so different from that glass. How long we have is as uncertain as the strength of that melted sand, shaped in fire, and molded by intent.

As for the glass, and the lace, they will one day crumble, be crushed or dissolved. The cities that treasure them will be drowned, the world will change, life will evolve or pass out of existence. That too is not so different from us, we are after all, all part of the great evolution. We shall die, turn to dust, be forgotten, everything passes, people, buildings, countries, even stars burn out.

But maybe, just maybe, those threads of connection, those reflections of real emotion will endure, spinning a lace of fineness in a universe of unimaginable grandeur, sparkling with the reflections of all that was good.

A museum of us, of our lives, of every tender moment in humanity and of all that was good in the universe.

A Museum of Eternity.

At least, I hope so. Perhaps, if we knit the thought together and put it under glass, it will be so.

Shari, February 28, 2013

The Incredible Beauty of Age.

Feb24

My husband Joseph and I were on the Grand Canal in Venice watching the palazzos slide by and I commented that it would have been remarkable to have seen it in it’s youth, when the buildings were covered in frescos and mosaics of gold and brilliant color glinted in the sunlight.

And he smiled gently and said, “It’s remarkably beautiful now.”

He’s right of course. Spending time in a different culture is beneficial in so many ways, the food, the history, the art, the language, all of these fill me with a sense of hugeness, and of the rapid passage of time. The diversity and unfamiliarity offer a sense of perspective that what we value in one small part of the world can often be incidental, or even distasteful, in another. This is important to realize and crucial to remember.

Even the faces here are different. One thing I noticed right away was the handsomeness of the elderly, especially the couples. There is a distinct difference in what is considered valuable here, and as a result, I have not once seen a woman who has destroyed her identity with plastic surgery.

People age here, and they do it gracefully. It would appear that they spend their lives living, experiencing what life has to offer with relish. What a wonderful reminder for me at 52, I have always preferred looking my age to looking desperate to be younger, it has always made me sad to see the artificiality that our society so often deems attractive. Of course, I live in Los Angeles, the city of surfaces.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying don’t take care of yourself, for goodness sake, wax that hair or have that mole removed, or maybe get a small tuck if something bothers you. Many of the older women here in Venice wear subtle makeup and dress exquisitely. They look their age, and their best. I have several friends back in the states who have had ‘work’ done that makes them looks as though they just had a restful vacation. That’s not what I’m talking about, I’m referring to abusing the knife until the individuality is lost. In my humble opinion, it does not improve their appearance, only neuters it.

I’m not judging other’s choices or actions, to each their own. I color the gray out of my hair, because it isn’t flattering to my skin, but I’m looking forward to it arriving at a tone I can leave. I use creams and lotions and in a few years I may have my loosening jaw tightened, not because I want to look younger, but because I think being jowly makes me look mean, and if there is a way I want to look, it is kind.

The wrinkles can stay, I don’t mind them. In fact, I not only like them, I earned them. And for anyone to tell me that the results of the laughter and suffering in my life, the wind on my face as I walked in nature’s beauty or the storms I have braved for adventure, have made me ugly, shows that it is not my skin that is unattractive, but their superficial insecurity. I would not trade those experiences for any amount of beauty.

How frustrating it must be to feel that you should look decades younger than you are. How positively awful to judge yourself by what someone shallow enough to place your value there would think, or for that matter, what anyone but you would think. And shame on anyone who judges only the outside, they are missing all that is important.

I have, as they say in Italian, five decades, in a blink I will have six, and if I’m lucky, seven and then even maybe, eight.

And I want to look beautiful—and eighty. I want my eyes to shine as the crinkles radiate from them and my smile to deepen my laugh lines until the story of my extraordinary life is written on my face. No one but me will have my unique memories, will have seen and felt the experiences I have had. That is precious to me.

They have a saying here in Italy, “If you are fortunate, you will get old” It doesn’t matter what you do to try to hide it, you will age. Why not appreciate the value and beauty of that? When did we forget to honor age and the passage of years? To see it as something magnificent in itself?

I will look at this ancient city and see the crumbling walls and the fading frescoes and listen to the secrets that they whisper and see the magnificence that stands, more graceful and vibrant for the time that has brushed them, and I will feel overwhelmed with life, with death, with the beauty of centuries, of ages, past and present.

Venerable Venice, it is always the same for me, I am awed. And the millennium that have passed over and through it make me smile with my heart.

We are not so different, after all. I will grow old, and I’m content with that. And I know that my husband will never look at me and say, how beautiful I was, wishing that he could see me then, he will smile softly at my old face and say, “You are amazingly beautiful now.”

And he will mean it.

Amore da Venezia

Shari, February 24, 2013

Return to Venice

Feb18

How lovely to be back in our favorite city, and for a month. I have been many times, and I still get lost.

Just like life, you think you know now how to handle mistakes, rude people, even the psychopaths you deal with regularly, yet each time, you find yourself thrown off and disoriented when faced with the twisting paths of territory that is, not necessarily unfamiliar, not even unexpected, but somehow still surprising. You can know that a city is twisted, that a person is unreasonable, that a reaction is absurd, but they are what they are.

And yet, along the way, we find beauty, affection, and real connection and you draw enough strength from those to suffer the random insanity. On this adventure we are staying in an apartment on the top floor of a 16th century palazzo. I find that amazing. To be in a place that was built for a single family over 400 years ago. The view from every window is remarkable, historic, and awe inspiring. And I feel so honored to have this opportunity.

A large part of my heritage is Italian, and the food, the laughter, the passion—and the aggressive driving—are in my blood. They might not have cars in Venice, but on the way into the city on the water taxi, our driver was on a mission to beat out the other boats, my daughter, whose humor always warms my heart, turned to me and said dryly, “He drives like an Italian.”

Which he was. Which I am, though tempered with a good portion of British blue blood. We have been here only one full day and already we have connected with so many good people. There are no elevators here, of course. And our apartment is on the fourth floor, many wide marble steps, interspersed with magnificent mosaics on landings, mark our pathway home. An older gentleman occupies the only other top floor apartment and we arrived home as he was bringing his groceries up. Not having known he was going all the way up, when he arrived after us, I said, in italian, “I’m sorry, I should have helped you.” Then joked, “Troppi scale!” which means, “There are too many stairs!”

He looked at me with a bright eye and a yellow toothed smile and said with a laugh. “Troppi anni!”

Too many years.

Ah, the heart of the Italians. To have spent your life in a city of ancient and immortal beauty.

And an inimitable sense of humor, a love of laughter and life.

You cannot have too many years.

Con amori da Venzia,

Shari, February 18, 2013

All the Help I Need.

Feb10

I spent a few hours today with the costume designer for Scream at the Devil. I’ve worked with Vicki before on many plays, and she actually designed and made my wedding dress for me. She’s an extremely talented lady who will be ‘building’ me several pieces for the movie, but today we came up with a master plan, colors, how my look will degenerate along with my sanity, and the overall look of the character.

My character Miriam is an artist, and that will be reflected in what she wears. Whenever I work with someone of Vicki’s caliber, I am reminded again of how much help I receive as an actress from the incredibly hard working teams around me. I’ve always had a special place in my heart for these crew members on films. Often, they are the ones who are, literally, in your face while you are so emotionally raw, frazzled and stressed. To have a makeup artist who knows when to keep his or her mouth shut or sometimes offer the pressure of a hand on the shoulder, can mean a good day or a bad one.

In fact, I’ve seen people fired, many of them, for something as simple as moving around in the actor’s eye line. Now, I’m not one to pitch a fit on set, usually, though I do remember one time, when I was also playing someone losing their mind, and the crew was changing the set up. I was sitting off to one side, rocking, with my fingers in my ears, trying to maintain the level of emotional instability while lights and camera were moved, and I heard one of the grips say sarcastically, “What do we have here, method acting?”

I unleashed on him. I don’t remember what I said exactly, something along the line of “Shut the fu**” up!” But I do remember the look on his face. He was both shocked and really, really sorry. He had no idea I could hear him, or that he had distracted me, which is a huge no-no. We got through the day, and then he made a special point of coming to apologize to me. I did the same. I would never have spoken to him that way if I hadn’t been in character, already sobbing and vulnerable to the point of breaking. We became friends, both understanding the other, and finished out the film with great mutual respect.

I’m not a ‘method’ actress. Hell I’m a mom. Can you see me bringing my schizophrenic character home with me? That would be fun while I’m making dinner or helping with homework. “Finish your math or I will kill you! Satan told me to.”

Doesn’t really work, not for me. I’ve always found that kind of immersion to be indulgent. Besides, movies aren’t shot in order, so what at what level of insanity would I live? Slightly hysterical or full blown delusional? So many choices, so many dishes to smash.

Characters do, however, have a way of infiltrating your soul. When I finished the last shot of “Immortal Sins,” in which I play a deeply evil spirit called back to life to claim revenge on the ancestor of some one who burned me at the stake in a previous life, I remember going to my trailer and sitting down. As I sighed it out, a heavy, thick layer of emotion lifted off of me, so strong that I sobbed and collapsed back, exhausted. I hadn’t even known I was carrying that much of a pain body until it left me.

Part of that may have been because the director had been insecure and consequently very difficult to work with. Which brings me back to the crew, on whom I so often rely for my day to day support and sanity on a difficult shoot.

The costumer on that set was Spanish, were shooting in Galecia, Spain, and she did not speak a word of English, I knew almost no Spanish. Her assistant spoke English, and translated for us, but we often understood each other. We had been shooting in castles in winter and believe me, it’s cold in those stone edifices. So she had found me a sweater, hand knit and super thick, that I would wear between scenes. When the ladies came to pull my wardrobe that last day. I made to hand her the sweater, but I had fallen in love with it, it had been such a comfort in a strange, hard world on a difficult shoot. Our eyes met, and I said, in English, “I think, that this sweater was destroyed in the fire.”

Her assistant looked up from where she was gathering my wardrobe, confused and started to ask what I meant, but the costumer was already nodding and smiling. “Si,” she said, “el fuego.” And she pushed the sweater back into my arms.

I still have that sweater, and though I can’t remember that costumer’s name, I think of her with great affection every time I see it in my closet.

So here we go again. I know I will become closer to these people for a few weeks than I am with some of my best friends, and then it will be over, and those people will fade away.

But I’ll keep the moments, and their support close to my heart, to draw upon, like a warm, hand-knit sweater when I need the comfort. And I will be forever grateful for it, for them, for this.

Shari February 10, 2013

Shari Shattuck

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