This Much Is True

I needed to feel confident, and once I took control of the interview, they weren’t able to make me feel small. How could they make somebody who owned a house in Tuscany feel like a piece of dirt? They couldn’t. They would look at the brochure, then they would open up and we would have a conversation. They would say, ‘Oh, my God, it’s gorgeous. How long have you had that?’ They saw me as a human being, not just somebody who desperately wanted a job. That’s important, because when you’re at a disadvantage, you can’t do a good audition. I’ve always wanted to be taken seriously. Don’t dismiss me. You think I’m a little, roly-poly person? No: you’d better pay attention. And it worked. I can’t say that I ever actually rented the house to any of the casting people, but they were impressed.

I was still channelling Shelley Winters: when a casting director asked her what she’d done before, she leaned down into her bag and took out one Oscar, then the other Oscar and thumped them down on the desk. ‘That’s what I’ve done,’ she said. I also love the story about the brilliant actress Athene Seyler. When a director asked her what she had done, she said: ‘Do you mean this morning?’ On another occasion when she was asked, ‘What parts do you like playing?’, she looked at them with a curled lip and said, ‘Scornful parts!’

I’d advise young actors: ‘Remember that when you go into an audition you have the right to be there. Your talent gives you the right to be there and don’t let anyone put you down. Make them see you as a person. Engage. Make the first move: take control.’

Sometimes I went too far. There was one occasion that I particularly remember. The part was for the secretary of a detective, who was the lead role in the TV series. I was called in and as usual there was a panel of producers facing me. They told me a bit about the series and then asked if I knew who would be playing the lead role. ‘No, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Oh, it’s James Woods.’ I blinked. ‘James Woods. Oh, I see. He’s a bit of a cunt, isn’t he?’ You should have seen their faces. (Because he is!) I didn’t get that part.

My Turn to Fail

The thing about living in LA is that everybody is afraid of Failure. And Fatness. And I was afraid of neither. They’re so in thrall to success and celebrity that they’re terrified it might not happen. You shouldn’t fear failure. It’s not something that we relish — no one wants to fail — but it may be something we have to endure in order to improve and succeed.

I was lucky; in LA, thanks to Norman Lear’s extraordinarily generous retainer, every door was open to me. I’d never had so much money in my life and I didn’t have to do anything for it. But eventually, the work had to start. The show that we finally landed was Frannie’s Turn, created and written for me by Chuck Lorre. CBS picked it up and it was first aired in September 1992. Chuck was a former professional guitarist and songwriter turned scriptwriter; now he’s one of the richest and most successful producers and writers in Hollywood, with hit shows including The Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, Grace Under Fire, Young Sheldon, Dharma & Greg and the Cybill Shepherd series Cybill. I didn’t like Chuck much; he was too desperately focused on succeeding and it was an angry focus; you were always conscious of his presence as a smouldering, choleric intensity which might erupt into rage at any moment.

The producers, Marcy Carsey and Tom Werner, were delightful, however. We first met at Art’s Deli in Studio City. The LA delis were bliss for me, a Jewish girl brought up on chicken soup. Art’s Deli was the power-meeting place of choice for many Hollywood executives. But I knew most of the delis around. I ate my way in chopped liver from Zucky’s and Izzy’s and Fromin’s in Santa Monica to Canter’s (24-hour chicken soup and matzo balls) and Nate ’n Al’s, and Junior’s nearer to the studios. Marcy and Tom were unfailingly supportive and human. Despite the show’s failure, they never made me feel it was my fault. (It wasn’t!) I honour them still. A third producer, Caryn Mandabach, came to London and produces the wonderful show, Peaky Blinders. She’s never asked me to be in it. Pity.

We shot our sitcom in one of the many huge, sand-coloured, concrete hangars on the CBS Burbank lot. In the studio next door, they shot Roseanne, the hit sitcom at the time, on which Chuck had been a writer and was also co-executive producer. People who worked on Roseanne were always escaping to our studio, telling us about how ghastly Roseanne Barr was, and how frightened everyone was of her. They all loved John Goodman, who played her husband. He visited too one day, a glorious chap. Our set was a happy, inclusive one, unlike theirs.