So I sacrificed.
When Max wanted more days, I gave up time with Connor to be there. When Max wanted more nights, I gave up dinners and evenings with Celia. I must have called Celia almost every day from the set, apologizing for something. Apologizing that I couldn’t meet her at the restaurant in time. Apologizing that I needed her to stay home and watch Connor for me.
I could tell that part of her regretted pushing me to do the movie. I don’t think she liked me working with my ex-husband every day. I don’t think she liked me working with Max Girard every day. I don’t think she liked my long hours. And I got the impression that while she loved my baby girl, babysitting wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
But she kept it to herself and supported me. When I called to say I’d be late for the millionth time, she would say, “It’s OK, honey. Don’t worry. Just be great.” She was an excellent partner in that regard, putting me first, putting m
y work first.
And then, toward the end of shooting, after a long day of emotional scene work, I was in my dressing room getting ready to go home when Max knocked on my door.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
He looked at me with consideration and then took a seat. I remained standing, committed to leaving. “I think, Evelyn, we have something to think about.”
“We do?”
“The love scene is next week.”
“I’m aware.”
“This movie, it is almost done.”
“Yes.”
“And I think it is missing something.”
“Like what?”
“I think that the viewer needs to understand the raw magnetism of Patricia and Mark’s attraction.”
“I agree. That’s why I agreed to really show my breasts. You’re getting what no other filmmaker, including yourself, has ever gotten from me before. I’d think you’d be thrilled.”
“Yes, of course, I am, but I think we need to show that Patricia is a woman who takes what she wants, who delights in the sins of the flesh. She is, right now, such a martyr. She is a saint, helping Mark all through the film, standing by him.”
“Right, because of how much she loves him.”
“Yes, but we also need to see why she loves him. What does he give to her, what does she get from him?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I want us to shoot something almost no one does.”
“Which is?”
“I want to show you screwing because you love it.” His eyes were wide and excited. He was creatively enthralled. I always knew Max was a little lascivious, but this was different. This was a rebellious act. “Think about it. Sex scenes are about love. Or power.”
“Sure. And the purpose of the love scene next week is to show how much Patricia loves Mark. How much she believes in him. How strong their connection is.”
Max shakes his head. “I want it to show the audience that part of the reason Patricia loves Mark is because he makes her orgasm.”
I felt myself pulling back, trying to take it all in. It shouldn’t have felt so scandalous, and yet it absolutely was. Women have sex for intimacy. Men have sex for pleasure. That’s what culture tells us.
The idea that I’d be shown to enjoy my body, to desire the male form just as strongly as I was desired, to show a woman putting her own physical pleasure at the forefront . . . it felt daring.
What Max was talking about was a graphic portrayal of female desire. And my gut instinct was that I loved the idea. I mean, the thought of filming a graphic sex scene with Don was about as arousing to me as a bowl of bran flakes. But I wanted to push the envelope. I wanted to show a woman getting off. I liked the idea of showing a woman having sex because she wanted to be pleased instead of being desperate to please. So in a moment of excitement, I grabbed my coat, put out my hand, and said, “I’m in.”
Max laughed and hopped out of his chair, taking my hand and shaking it. “Fantastique, ma belle!”