This Much Is True

Yentl was primarily shot in the small town of Žatec (northwest of Prague), which filled in for rural Poland in the early twentieth century. It was the first American production that had been filmed in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic in almost a decade and when the plane touched down, there was a mass of expectant fans thronging the airport to catch sight of Barbra Streisand. Barbra is shy and nervous; she didn’t want to exit the plane with all those people there. She said to me, ‘You go.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘You go out, Miriam.’ I said, ‘You think they want to see me? Come on, Barbra, they want you! You’re the one they’re waiting for. Now, go out there and be Barbra Streisand.’

And she did: she stood up, took a deep breath and then she visibly became Barbra Streisand, the world-famous actress and singer. Thus transformed, head held high and face beaming, she walked down the steps from the plane and the crowd roared and cheered in welcome. It was fascinating to observe: before she went down those steps, she had to become another person — she had to become ‘Barbra Streisand’. She couldn’t be the Barbra Streisand that she was, because that wasn’t enough. So, she gathered herself, she summoned up her film-star image to face the curious public. I think that her authentic, natural ‘self’ is quite small and shy, not wanting all this fuss, but she knows she has to do it, so she gets out there.

When I told this story to Heather, she said that in Indonesia people consciously present themselves in public, so they actually have a phrase in Dutch to convey that moment when people have to gather themselves up in readiness to perform: ‘drempelvrees’ — ‘fear of thresholds’. That’s what Barbra was doing. We all do it to a certain extent, of course. Perhaps we don’t think that we officially present ourselves in public; we think that we are carrying our persona inside and outside — but we don’t. I know that I don’t: I am a different person in public — I’m more upbeat, more fun, more outgoing than I really am in private.

Yentl was Barbra Streisand’s pet project — it was an important work, dedicated to her beloved dead father. She was completely in charge of every aspect of the production; every detail had to be absolutely right, and she never relaxed. Consequently, she was tough on all involved. When she came on set, she looked around with a gimlet eye, checking that everything was just so. She was hands-on and sharp as a tack. I remember her arriving on set on one occasion, spotting a book that was upside down and instantly correcting it.

The next time I met Barbra was about ten years ago, on The Guilt Trip (2012) in which she starred with Seth Rogen. An offer arrived at my agent from the director: ‘Could you come over? It’s only a day’s filming and we’ll give you $1,000 and a first-class trip.’ I asked my agent to reply as follows: ‘Thank you so much for the offer. Make it $25,000 and I might come.’ And they did. They were just trying it on. They flew me out first class and it was all extremely enjoyable. Barbra said, ‘Oh, I remember you!’ It was a long time ago and she’s met a lot of people, so it was nice to be remembered, but she’s not really interested in other people and, at the end, she left the set without saying goodbye to anybody. She read her lines from the autocue, which had been placed behind the person she was acting with. One of the other actresses wanted a photograph with her and she refused. And I thought, ‘What a pity?’ The only time I’ve spurned a member of the public was once when, desperate to go to the loo, a lady got in my way demanding a selfie. And I said, ‘Get out of my way or I’ll pee on your foot.’ She moved aside with some alacrity, but I felt a bit mean.

Working with Scorsese: The Age of Innocence

One director I longed to work with was Martin Scorsese. In 1993, Susan told me he was casting The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton’s study of manners and morality in 1870s New York, and that there might be a good part for me. I was thrilled. The interview would be held at his house in Manhattan.

I flew over to New York and, one morning, took a cab to his brownstone house on the Upper East Side. I was nervous but excited. I rang the bell, a maid answered and ushered me into a library, filled not with books but with tapes and videos of films — thousands of them.

Mr Scorsese came in and greeted me. He’s a short man, with a kind smile and an intense gaze. He told me why he wanted to cast English actors in the film: the novel examines American society at a particular time when judgements were made about women, often cruelly. He wanted actors who could be authentically upper class, whose speech and bearing demanded respect and who carried themselves with confidence. He felt English actors were more at home depicting ‘class’ — we inherit it with our mother’s milk.