Saturday, July 16, 2005

Manuel Puig / Kiss of the Spider Woman




Jailbirds

Kiss of the Spider Woman (1985)


Andrew Pulver
Saturday 16 July 2005

Author: Manuel Puig (1932-1990) grew up in a small town in the remote Argentinian pampas, obsessed with films and dabbling in transvestitism. At 23, he won a scholaship to study film-making in Rome, but soon dropped out. After a decade of writing film scripts, Puig returned to Buenos Aires in 1967 and turned a script into his first novel, a semi-autobiographical fable about a movie-world fantasist, Betrayed by Rita Hayworth (1968). However, the flamboyant Puig found it difficult to live in Peronist Argentina, and moved to Brazil in 1973 and New York three years later. Kiss of the Spider Woman was published in 1976. Puig remained in New York - as a high-profile gay writer he was regularly attacked in the Argentinian media - and lectured on creative writing at Columbia university. He finally settled in 1989 in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and died a year later from complications after a gall-bladder operation.
Story: Echoing his film script work, Kiss of the Spider Woman is written almost entirely as dialogue. Two men - a political radical, Arregui, and a gay paedophile, Molina, are imprisoned in the same cell in a Buenos Aires penitentiary. To pass the time, Molina recites the plots of his favourite films, beginning with Jacques Tourneur's 1942 horror movieCat People. Molina's camp fetishism initially irritates Arregui - especially when he realises another of Molina's favourites is a Nazi propaganda piece. Puig inserts a "transcript" of a meeting between Molina and the prison warden, revealing that the authorities have demanded Molina inform on Arregui. But as their relationship deepens (culminating in a sexual episode), Molina agrees to deliver a message for Arregui after he is released. A final "report" reveals that Molina is shot dead in the street as he tries to carry out his mission.


The film-maker: Hector Babenco (b1946) grew up in Argentina but settled in Brazil in 1969. He began directing features in 1975, but made a major international impact with Pixote (1981), an account of the appalling life of São Paulo street children. Babenco spent four years bringing Kiss of the Spider Woman to the screen, casting William Hurt in the pivotal role. (Puig hated Hurt's performance, despite his winning an Oscar.) Shortly after completing the film, Babenco was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer; his doctor, Dráuzio Varella, went on to write the prison stories that would become Babenco's most successful film, Carandiru (2003).
How book and film compare: Though the film's narrative generally sticks close to the novel it excises Puig's lengthy footnotes about clinical assessments of homosexuality, and replaces Molina's fetishisation of real movies with a single, fictitious Nazi-style piece, which is recreated at intervals throughout the story. Much of the detail of Molina's lifestyle is lost in the adaptation, and the "spider woman" is presented as another of Molina's films - whereas she appears in Puig's original as the final image of Arregui's own fantasy as he is tortured.
Inspirations and influences: As an evocation of high camp, Kiss of the Spider Woman brought gay cabaret style into mainstream movies, paving the way for American treatments of similar themes, such as Torch Song Trilogy (1988). It also marked a turning point for Latin American cinema, in the doldrums after the politically inspired cinema novo of the 1960s and 1970s.




Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Dumbledore's death in the style of Anne Rice

 

Dumbledore


Harry Potter

Dumbledore's death in the style of Anne Rice

Wednesday 13 July 2005

It was rumored to have been a noble death, and that brought mild comfort into the hearts of the bereaved mourners that stood in huddled groups, watching through tear-veiled eyes as the gilded casket was ceremoniously interred in the mausoleum.

It was also a tragedy. That a man as beloved and respected as Albus Dumbledore, who had defeated the dark wizard, Grindenwald, could be destroyed so suddenly by but a mere handful of enemies was inconceivable. . .

How could something so horrific be allowed to happen? That was the question that people demanded of the heavens and of each other; as they nursed their guilt-ridden hearts. Any would have willingly given their own lives in place of his.

"If only I had been there." was the common phrase, amongst the self-flagellating hordes.


Dumbledore

In the manner of wounded dogs, that bite the hand that attempts to salve the wound, they rounded, teeth bared, on the person whom they perceived as a failed hero. He who had been with Dumbledore, but had been unable to save him.

" Why didn't you save him?" They demanded, closing in on their prey.

When Albus Dumbledore had been disarmed, captured, and tortured by the villainous Deatheaters, where had his pet spy been? There to save him with brave flourishes and self-sacrifice? Not as they saw it.

How could he explain to them what those last minutes had been like? He had stood by, helpless, as Dumbledore was questioned, then when faced with the possibility of the truth serum, which would have endangered them all, Dumbledore had whispered his last request into Snape's mind.

" For the sake of Merlin, Severus, let me have your wand." even his mental voice had been pain-laced, and weary.

So careful, that it looked like an accident, he, Snape, had edged closer to the bound figure, so that Dumbledore's hand, which had somehow escaped it's bonds, could seize the implement from him.

Before any of the Deatheaters could respond, Dumbledore had turned the wand on himself, offering only a brief and inconspicuous nod of dignified gratitude to his saviour. His last words echoed still through Snape's mind;

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

" How did he die?" The people demanded of Snape, later at the trial.

And Snape answered;

" I killed him."

Jayme Goodman


THE GUARDIAN

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Brooke Shields / This much I know / Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband





This much I know


Brooke Shields
"Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband"

Brooke Shields, actress, 40, London


Interview by Lucy Siegle
Sunday 12 June 2005 16.41 BST


I
always had that Little Miss Perfect tag. People can't wait to label you, and it didn't help that I was a perfectionist anyway. In that way I was my biggest enemy. I always wanted to be better, whether it was acting or at school. It doesn't make life easy.

Having my daughter has made me ease up a bit. Especially when it comes to tidying the apartment. The trail of destruction a small child causes is quite unbelievable.



I don't know of many women who don't have a fraught relationship with their mother. Mine had a reputation as the stage mom from hell, but I believe she behaved like a tiger out of necessity rather than personal drive. I'm her only child, and she was a single mother. I don't feel the need to reconcile it any more.
It's assumed that I've spent my whole life being unhappily moulded. In reality, I've rarely been forced into anything that I haven't wanted to do.



Tom Cruise did not have a uterus last time I checked. So I'm not sure how he is qualified to criticise my use of medication when I was suffering from postnatal depression.
As you get older you accept you can't slavishly follow fashion. I mean, I like the low jeans, but I don't want to bend over and show everybody everything I've got back there.
The assumption that people are going to do the right thing is really quite naive. I always thought, 'If I tell the truth, they'll like me.' My mother shielded me from the bad things in this industry, a lot of the ugliness.



I feel older when I look in the mirror, but not aged. When I look now I can see into my eyes. It's less about worrying about whether I need a facial or some aesthetic problem. I also feel pretty fatigued, but that's what comes of doing a show like Chicago.
What you accept for yourself, you won't necessarily accept for your children. There is no way I will ever miss any of my daughter's school recitals or plays. I don't care what I'm working on, I'm going to have it written into my contract. I'm much more willing to stand up for her than I ever knew how to do so for myself.



The problem with my hair is that it's not curly or straight. It's kind of bent. I cut it short once, but I couldn't cope with all the maintenance. Then there was the time I had it feathered and permed on the same day. That was a bad day.
Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband. In my opinion the best ones are in New York. I've always been a therapy fan. So many people have so many opinions in your life; even if they stem from love they're going to be biased. There's a lot to be said for getting an outside opinion.



While the world said I was exploited, I just felt like the kid who got all the toys. In fact, when I see the way things are done today, I'm amazed at how mild those scenes I did in Pretty Baby and Blue Lagoon as a young actress actually were. I was never on my own. I might have hung out at Studio 54, but once the pictures were taken I went home to bed.
I can hold my alcohol these days. I know the difference between giddy and sick. Don't trust all those people in LA who say they don't drink. I think they must all drink like crazy when they get home.



I've been through all mobile ringtones, but there's only one with birds that doesn't wake the baby up.
I think some people think of me like their pet. There was this guy at Princeton, one of the footballers, who would have beaten up anyone who looked at me the wrong way, which was pretty comforting when people were trying to sneak in to get pictures of me in my dorm or through the shower grate.



I've never been naturally fashion conscious. I'm the kind of person who sees a whole outfit in a magazine, runs out and buys it but looks like a clown. I'm not like Gwyneth and all those fashion-savvy girls, although someone told me they all have stylists.
Some of what you go through in postnatal depression is so absurd that I can only laugh now. It would be too much to handle otherwise.




THIS MUCH I KNOW

Wednesday, June 8, 2005

Alan Clarke / The lost leader


'Intense, brilliant, truthful drama' ... Alan Clarke's Scum


Alan Clarke

The lost leader

Alan Clarke was one of this country's greatest directors, the man who gave us Scum, Made in Britain and Rita, Sue and Bob Too. Fifteen years after his death, his friends, colleagues and admirers remember him

8 June 2005

Paul Greengrass
Director, Bloody Sunday

The first Alan Clarke film I ever saw was Sovereign's Company, an old Play for Today from the early 1970s about a young man who joins his grandfather's regiment and is so fearful of being unmasked as a coward that, in the end, he beats another soldier to death. I was 15 years old, and I can still remember today the sense of shock and anger that I felt as I watched it. Later came Made in Britain, Elephant, Scum, Contact, The Firm - a string of the most intense, brilliant, truthful dramas ever seen on British television. These were groundbreaking films that chronicled the Thatcher years and uncovered the terrible cost of the Troubles. As a director, it seems to me that Clarke had it all - he had range, he had vision, he put energy on the screen, he could tell a story, he discovered fantastic actors and got great performances from them, and he could use a camera like a dream. He remains, in my eyes, quite simply the greatest British director of my lifetime.

Lesley Manville
Actor, The Firm

It was very liberating shooting The Firm. We shot the whole film on Steadicam, and very often Alan wouldn't do separate shots for close-ups, so the actors had a lot of physical freedom. It made a huge difference in the performances - that was paramount for Alan. I remember shooting the scene where Gary Oldman's character comes home to his wife (played by me) and they argue and fight and he forces her to the floor to have sex, and you think, this is awful - he's raping his wife. But in fact she starts to giggle and you realise that this is their "thing". This scene was cut for censorship reasons, but I remember shooting it in one long take. It was amazing - not acting in short bursts trying to maintain emotion, but performing it from beginning to end. The acting was everything for Alan, and extraordinary though it may sound, that is rare in a director.

Danny Boyle
Director, Trainspotting

I produced Alan Clarke's film Elephant for BBC Northern Ireland in 1989. There wasn't much producing involved, apart from making sure Alan's per diems were paid promptly. Instead, I got the chance to pick the brains of a genius director. His advice was pragmatic: "Get plenty of coverage as editing solves everything, and stop reading the Guardian - everything you need to know and everything you don't want to know is in the Sun."

Tim Roth
Actor, Made in Britain

Scum was the film that made me want to be an actor. I went to see it at the Prince Charles in London five or six times. I thought, if these guys could be actors, then I could, too. You got the feeling they were people he'd lifted off the streets. When he put me in Made in Britain, I'd never worked in front of a camera; I had no idea about it at all. From him I had a crash course in film-making. After that I assumed all films were made on Steadicam - it wasn't until I did a film with Mike Leigh that I realised that you could have a fixed camera. The fact you could follow the actors around and do long takes made Steadicam so attractive to him. You were limited only by the amount of film in the camera. With Alan, though he pushed you to immerse yourself in the character, it was never the Method, or any other particular system. When anyone asks me what my favourite experience was as an actor, I always hold up Made in Britain. I was as raw as I could possibly be. It was my first job, the one where I lost my virginity.

Corin Campbell Hill
Assistant director, The Firm

"When I catch up with the dog in my brain, I'll let you know," he would say. Alan was a walking stream of consciousness in his zip-up jumper, worn trousers and dishevelled hair. He'd walk and talk you down a hundred paths of how he might make the film. We walked and talked miles. Paratroopers in Northern Ireland, teenage drug addicts, football hooligans, hopeless unemployment - this was his world. He was brilliant to be around, ever-changing, ever-alive. And he fought hard. They were tough films to make and to get made. He pushed himself very hard. He wrestled the films out of himself. They did not come easily. He lived and breathed work. He was a man of contrasts, so warm and open, so quiet and solitary. His last fight - with cancer - was his hardest. He bore his pain with grace. He died so young with so much more to say. There was no one to touch him.

Sandy Lieberson

He had a different perspective from the rest of us and forced us to open our eyes to the society and culture he saw. I brought Alan to LA to spend a few months looking for ideas and stories that might be made in the US. He soon checked out of the comfortable hotel in Beverly Hills, moved to a small hotel on Hollywood Boulevard full of junkies and prostitutes, and then disappeared without trace for two months. We became friends, saw each other regularly, and eventually I had the good luck to produce Rita, Sue and Bob Too. Alan's losing battle with cancer brought many of his friends together for the last few weeks of his life. We met every evening in Alan's room at the nursing home, drank, smoked some dope, exchanged stories and managed to find things we could all laugh at. It made us all more human.

Gary Oldman
Actor, The Firm

The absence from the cultural landscape of a true giant like Alan is immeasurable. Culture moves through such remarkable people. Painting never looked the same after Picasso. Gangsters never looked the same after Coppola. Comedy never looked the same after the Marx brothers or Chaplin. These artists - and the cliche holds - had that most rare thing: true vision. Alan was such a visionary, plain and simple. Though many have tried, no one has replaced him. And I can't think of one British film-maker in recent years who hasn't been affected or influenced by Alan. I feel privileged to have been associated with him.

David Leland
Writer, Made in Britain

Alan once lived in a basement flat in Almeida Street with the writer David Yallop. He said it was so messy it was the only address in Islington where the bin men delivered. Alan and I worked on many projects - Russian labour camps, machinations of multinational corporations, interrogation and torture, and more. Even at the most serious moments, you were never far from a laugh. That I miss. The way we worked together - we were always together, we did all the research together. He would walk and talk. I think we covered every street in Geneva for Beloved Enemy. Once I'd written it, he wanted me to be there on set and during rehearsals. If an actor asked a question he couldn't answer, he'd say, "Dave, you've got a minute to answer, or I'm cutting it." He wasn't afraid to say he didn't know, until he got the answer that worked for him.

THE GUARDIAN


Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Oprah Talks to Tina Turner


Oprah Talks to Tina Turner



This interview appeared in the May 2005 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine. 


The triumphant queen of rock 'n' soul—that 1,000-watt voice! Those killer legs! That hard-earned don't-mess-with-me-ness!—lets her glorious mane down to talk about growing up in Nutbush, Tennessee, surviving Ike Turner's brutal physical abuse (and the night she got away), younger men, growing older, plastic surgery and why "all the best" is yet to come. 

When Tina Turner's Wildest Dreams tour stopped in Houston back in 1997, I stood (let me tell ya, you seldom sit at a Tina performance) next to a woman whose story I'll never forget. "I came because I was looking for the courage to leave the man who beats me," she said. "Tonight I found that courage."

Watching Tina perform is what I call a spiritual experience. Each electrifying swing of her miniskirt, every slide of her three-inch Manolos across the stage, sends a message: I am here. I have triumphed. I will not be broken. When I leave a Tina concert, I feel the same way I do after I've seen any great art: I want to be a better human being.

Before Tina Turner—a stage name Ike Turner gave her—there was Anna Mae Bullock, a girl born to sharecropping parents in 1939. Her father and her mother, who was part Native American, left her during World War II to be raised by her grandmother in Nutbush, Tennessee, while they worked in Knoxsville. In Nutbush, Tina fantasized about stardom while singing in talent shows and at church. After moving to St. Louis at age 16, Anna was discovered by Ike, the leader of the R&B band the Kings of Rhythm. Within a few years, her stirring vocals and energetic dance moves catapulted her from backup singer to the act's dominating force, which was renamed the Ike & Tina Turner Revue.

In 1960 the couple had a son, Ronnie. (Ike already had two sons, and Tina had one.) The same year, they landed their first hit, "A Fool in Love," and in 1962, they were married in Tijuana. The band's crossover to pop came with "River Deep—Mountain High" (1966)—a song that, while not a chart topper in the United States, propelled them to European acclaim. Onstage Ike and Tina soared, but offstage she suffered through his violent attacks. One night in 1976, after arriving in Dallas to begin a tour, he beat her bloody en route to the hotel. As soon as he fell asleep, Tina put on sunglasses to disguise her bruised face and escaped with 36 cents in her pocket. She found refuge in a nearby Ramada Inn, then fled to Los Angeles.

After the split, Tina paid her rent by cleaning houses. She eventually broke into cabaret, performing old hits, and later played Las Vegas. Finally, in 1984, with her own manager and a new record label, Tina released her breakout solo album, Private Dancer. The record sold more than ten million copies; she won three Grammys and scored her first number one hit: "What's Love Got to Do with It." In 1986 her autobiography, I, Tina, was published, exposing the shocking abuse she'd endured. (The book was made into the 1993 movie What's Love Got to Do with It.) Since leaving Ike, Tina has become an international rock and soul legend whose packed concerts are among the top selling in history. For nearly 20 years, she's been living in Zurich with her longtime partner, Erwin Bach.

Although she officially hung up her high heels from the big tours in 2000, she returned to the United States last winter with the release of her double CD anthology, All the Best. I spent my birthday, January 29, with her at the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles. At 65 she's more gorgeous than I've ever seen her. "I've never been happier," she said. Her face and demeanor showed it. I've talked to Tina many times on TV, and in this interview, I found her at her most candid—about the years with Ike, rocking on through her 60s, loving a man 16 years her junior and the one dream she still has. 





Oprah: You look good! Those legs—is that just genes? 


Tina: Yeah, I always had long legs. When I was young, I used to think, "Why do I look like a little pony?" 

Oprah: Your legs aren't just long, they're shapely and beautiful. 

Tina: I never put a lot of praise on myself because of my relationship with Ike. I was just happy when I started to like myself—when I divorced and took control of my life.

Oprah: You didn't just divorce. You broke out.

Tina: That's right. 

Oprah: Growing up, how poor were you? Every time I hear your song "Nutbush City Limits," I think of my little hometown in Mississippi.

Tina: We weren't in poverty. We had food on the table. We just didn't have fancy things, like bicycles. We were church people, so on Easter, we got all done up. I was very innocent and didn't know much else. I knew the radio—B.B. King, country and western. That's about it. I didn't know anything about being a star until the white people allowed us to come down and watch their television once a week.

Oprah: Which white people?

Tina: The Poindexters. My [maternal] grandmother lived on their farm. That's when I saw Loretta Young on TV. I thought someday I'd have a star on my dressing room. But guess what? When we did "A Fool in Love," and we went to the clubs, we were in a storage room full of beer bottles, Coke bottles. We had to dust and clean up. We were on the road, sleeping in the car.

Oprah: But you started to dream when you first saw Loretta Young?

Tina: Before that. Remember Betty Grable?

Oprah: No.

Tina: You're 15 years younger than me. Betty Grable [a World War II pinup girl and actress] had beautiful short legs. She was in proportion.

Oprah: Your legs are endless.

Tina: That's what I didn't like. I didn't know how to buy clothes for that. As I grew up, I learned what worked for me. That's where the short dresses came from. And you can't dance in a long dress.

Oprah: No, no. But let's start with Nutbush. What carried you to the next point?

Tina: Fate. When my parents went off to Knoxville to work, I lived with my father's mother. She was strict—the kind who starched and ironed dresses. I had to sit more than I played. Oh, I was miserable. I liked being out with the animals. I'd come in the house with my hair pulled out, sash off the dress, dirty as heck. I was always getting spanked. When my parents returned, they separated. Oooh, Oprah! You know what happens to children sometimes when their parents separate—school can be really cruel. I got teased, and it interfered with my learning. But I grew out of that, and I fell in love in high school. Why did I fall so deeply in love? I think when you haven't had that much love at home, and then you find someone you love, everything comes out. 

Oprah: The first love can be the most difficult to get through because you've had no experience. 

Tina: That's right. When I think of Harry now, my heart beats faster. He was the most good-looking guy. Everything was in the right place—his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He was a basketball star. Sometimes I'd wear his jacket. It was fainting hot, but because it was his jacket, I wore it. It was magical.

Oprah: I can see that.

Tina: Harry also took my virginity. I don't regret it. I came home that night and folded the dress I'd been wearing and put it away. The next day, my grandmother was doing spring cleaning and everything got washed. When I came home, she said, "I knew you were running around. You're gonna get pregnant." Oh, Oprah! I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say. She didn't wash the dress. She just left it out. There was this big spot on it. She didn't let me go dating Harry anymore. 

Oprah: Your eyes still light up when you talk about him.

Tina: At the time, I wanted to get married and have children. Harry would have been the one. Years later, after "What's Love Got to Do with It," I ran into his son. He came up to me and said, "Harry Taylor is my father." He looked just like Harry. I thought, "My God, that must have been from another lifetime."

Oprah: It's so interesting what maturity does. What did the Ike years teach you about yourself?

Tina: That's when I learned that I was truly talented. Before I met Ike, I was singing at church and at picnics—but lots of people sing at church and picnics. After I moved with my mother to St. Louis, my older sister and I went to see Ike Turner, who was the hottest then. His music charged me. I was never attracted to him, but I wanted to sing with his band. Ike thought I couldn't sing because I was a skinny-looking girl. Oprah, you were Ike's type. He liked the ladies with the hips. 

Oprah: Oh, I really missed out on that one! What is Ike's phone number? 

Tina: There was a girl named Pat, and she looked a lot like you, Oprah. He let her sing because she was his type. Pat couldn't sing nearly as well as I could. One evening when the drummer gave my sister the mike, I took it. I could do B.B. King songs with all the emotion. Ike said, "Girl, I didn't know you could sing!" I was so happy, because he was bigger than life. That's when I knew I wanted to be an entertainer. Forget marriage, children, and living happily ever after as a housewife. That was gone. Ike went out and bought me a fur, a dress, some high-heeled shoes. He got my hair all done up. I rode to work in a pink Cadillac. I even got my teeth fixed.

Oprah: How old were you?

Tina: Seventeen. Ike had to come to the house and ask Ma if it was okay for me to sing with him. He knew I had the potential to be a star. We were close, like brother and sister. We had so much fun, Oprah. On his off nights, we'd drive around town, and he would tell me about his life, his dreams. He told me that when he was young, people found him unattractive. That really hurt him. I felt bad for him. I thought, "I'll never hurt you, Ike." I meant it. He was so nice to me then, but I did see the other side of him. He was always fighting people—but I just thought that was because they'd wronged him. That had nothing to do with me.





Oprah: That's what you thought?


Tina: Yes. I also saw that he had a temper when he would fight with the girl he was dating. Then I learned that his father had been beaten up by some whites for going out with the same woman one of them was going out with. His father later died. I learned a whole story about Ike. 

During the time when I didn't have a boyfriend and Ike had broken up with his woman, he started touching me. I didn't like it, but I didn't know what to do or say. We were sitting in the backseat of a car. In those days, everybody did what Ike said. He had the power. He had never been mean to me, so I felt loyal to him. But I didn't want a relationship with him. 

Then came the recording. I went to a studio, recorded "A Fool in Love," and Ike sent it to New York. Soon after, Ike and I had a little run-in and I said to myself, I think I'd better get out of this. So I told the girl who was managing everything that I didn't want to be involved with the recording. That was the first time I really got a beating from Ike. 

Oprah: A beating?

Tina: With a shoe stretcher.

Oprah: Wait a minute. He hit you with a wooden shoe stretcher?

Tina: Yes.

Oprah: Where were you?

Tina: At his house in East St. Louis. I was afraid of Ike—I'd talked to the manager because I felt the vibration of what was about to happen. I wanted out.

Oprah: Even if it meant giving up your music?

Tina: I had a reputation around town as Little Ann. I could have gotten jobs with other bands—but I was loyal to Ike. That's how I am. Ike would ask me over and over: "Oh, you want to hurt me like everybody else, don't you?" I'd be saying, "No, no, no," but the more I said no, the more he'd say, "Yes, that's what it is." Later on, that pattern of dialogue became so familiar that when he'd start with it, I'd know a beating was coming. He'd walk around biting his lip and working himself up. I'm sure he needed a bit of therapy.

Oprah: A bit? 

Tina: Anyway, wham! I was shocked. How could you hit someone with a shoe stretcher? Then he hit me with the heel of a shoe.

Oprah: In your face?

Tina: Always. Later he'd hit me in the ribs, and then always try to give me a black eye. He wanted his abuse to be seen. That was the shameful part. 

Oprah: Over the years, I've told women that when it happens the first time, you need to walk.

Tina: I did not walk. 

Oprah: What happened after he hit you? 

Tina: He told me to get in the bed, and he had sex with me. When I met Ike, I couldn't have orgasms. He used to get angry with me. He'd say, "You're not trying." Later it became, "You're not trying to get a hit record." All the blame was on me. When I look back on that time now, it was just hell. So why didn't I walk out? I had nowhere to go. I didn't have money—and neither did my mother. I found out later that my mom had this worship thing for Ike. When Ike and I eventually separated, she tried to find me for him. 

Oprah: Is it true that he would beat you before you went onstage? 

Tina: Yes. I never knew what would trigger him. He was tired, he didn't eat properly, and he'd drink peach brandy with his drugs. So his emotions were never in control. 

Oprah: He was obviously unhappy with himself.

Tina: And so fearful of failure. We hadn't had a hit for a while. He was spending most of the money on drugs. Expenses were mounting. I was upset because I wasn't receiving a dime. I knew that he was buying for all the ladies around him. 

Oprah: What was the greatest humiliation for you?

Tina: There were so many. He liked to show the public that he was in control and that he was a woman hater. He also liked for his women to get up and walk across the floor for display so that other men could see what he had. I didn't know how to get out of the whole situation. There were many times when I picked up the gun when he was sleeping. I once moved all his clothes from the house down to the studio. He had a fit.

Another night we had a fight in the dressing room, and when I went onstage, my face was swollen. I think my nose was broken because blood was gushing into my mouth when I sang. Before, I'd been able to hide under makeup. But you can't hide swelling. 

Oprah: Did people around you know what was happening?

Tina: The band knew. But it was probably difficult for them to get work and I think they wanted drugs from Ike. I didn't know where to go. And I still had a sisterly love for the man. I did my best to make him happy. I shopped for him. I did his hair. I was his Cinderella. 

Oprah: Some part of you must have believed that you deserved the abuse.

Tina: Oprah, if I thought I deserved it, I never found that out. It was just karma. I came into this lifetime with a job to finish. I finished it well. I've been told many reasons for why I lived through what I did. But I have never felt that I deserved it. 




Oprah: Was it a self-esteem issue? There's no way this could happen to you today. I just ran across a letter I wrote in my 20s, when I was in an emotionally abusive relationship. I'd written 12 pages to one of the great jerks of all time. I wanted to burn the letter. I want no record of the fact that I was ever so pitiful. 


Tina: I had pity for myself. That started way back when I felt my mother didn't love me. A psychic in England told me that when my mother was pregnant with me, she didn't want me. When I confronted Ma about that, she told me the whole story. When I was born, she felt trapped into staying with my father. I didn't blame her, but I felt sorry for myself.

Oprah: Not being wanted is a terrible feeling. My mother didn't want me, either. 

Tina: Did you feel pity for yourself?

Oprah: No. But it affected my self-esteem for years. It's unnatural to not be wanted by your mother. That takes some overcoming.

Tina: Right. I don't think about my years with Ike a lot because I don't need to. It was the worst time in my life. 

Oprah: Did your children witness the abuse?

Tina: They saw the black eyes. Ike's children never reacted, but my oldest son, Craig, was a very emotional kid. He'd always look down in sadness. One day when Ike was fighting me, Craig knocked on the door and said, "Mother, are you all right?" I thought, "Oh, please, don't beat me at home." I didn't want my children to hear. I tried to have meals with the children, talk to them about life. But Ike had no sense of that. He'd always come home late from the studio. It was awful. 

Oprah: What did you learn from that time? 

Tina: That I have to depend on myself. When you stay in a situation like that, you're trapped in negative energy. I believe that if you'll just stand up and go, life will open up for you. Something just motivates you to keep moving. When I left, I simply said to that white manager at a hotel in Texas, "Can you give me a room?" I was shaken, nervous, scared. But I knew I wasn't going back. 

After my plane landed in California, my heart was in my ears. I was afraid Ike would be there because when I'd left once before, he tracked me down on a bus. I'd been sleeping, and when I sat up and looked out the window, there he was. That was the first time I got beat with a hanger. So when I got off that plane, I ran like mad. I said to myself, "If he's here, I'm going to scream for the police." And I had one chant in my head: "I will die before I go back."

Oprah: After surviving that, did you feel you could do anything?

Tina: Oh, yes. 

Oprah: Were you still scared of him for a long time?

Tina: When he finally found me, he asked if I would see him. I went out and sat in the car to talk with him. I knew exactly where the door handle was. So when he said, "You motherf---er," I was out of the car and back in the house. I think he told my mother that he was happy I'd gotten out of the car because he had a gun and was planning to kill me. 

Oprah: Weren't you afraid?

Tina: I wasn't afraid of death. And I knew there was nothing he could say or do that would make me go back to him. In court, during the divorce, he tried to give me a mean look. I wanted to say, "You're such an idiot. Do you think your vibes can even reach me now?" He had no power over me. For anyone who's in an abusive relationship, I say this: Go. Nothing can be worse than where you are now. You have to take care of yourself first—and then you take care of your children. They will understand later.

Oprah: I got that.

Tina: Your children are blessed. They possibly have good karma, or someone will take them in. People take care of children. But they don't always take care of you. 

Oprah: I understand that in a way that I've never understood it. How old were the kids when you finally left? 

Tina: Old enough. Craig had graduated from high school. My youngest son, Ronnie, was still in school. The housekeeper was there. I made sure they would be all right. But before you can really help them, you have to strengthen yourself. You're the priority.

Oprah: How did you get on that plane with only 36 cents? 

Tina: I called one of our lawyers who had often looked at me with a face that said, "Why do you stay?" I said, "I've left Ike. If you can send money, I promise to pay you back one day." The lawyer called some friends in Fort Worth, and the next day, a couple came to the hotel. They didn't say a word to me. I just got in their backseat. The country was still very segregated, yet these white people were doing something for a black woman. When I arrived in California, I took a taxi to a hotel in Hollywood to meet the lawyer. He paid for the cab, and from there, we went to his home. The next day was the Fourth of July—Independence Day. That holiday had never meant so much. 

Oprah: You've been a Buddhist for a long time. What brought you to that?

Tina: The women who sold drugs to Ike said, "What are you doing here, Tina? How can you live with this madness?" Then one day, someone told me, "Buddhism will save your life." I was willing to try anything. I started to chant. Once, I chanted, went to the studio, and put down a vocal, just like that. Ike was so excited that he gave me a big wad of money and said, "Go shopping!" I thought, "This chanting stuff works." I was hooked. I still believe in the Lord's Prayer. I find a form of the Lord's Prayer in Buddhism. Every religion has rules for living a good life. If you practice any kind of spirituality, it moves you to stages where you gather other ways of communicating.

Oprah: That's exactly what I believe. You evolve new parts of yourself.

Tina: I never close a door on any other religion. Most of the time, some part of it makes sense to me. I don't believe everyone has to chant just because I chant. I believe all religion is about touching something inside of yourself. It's all one thing. If we would realize this, we could make a change in this millennium. 

OPRAH