Domenica Feraud and the Movie Star

The Movie Star and Me (article published by Domenica Feraud, assistant on the Broadway production of "Sunday in the Park with George", 2016) on Medium.com (January 15, 2022)

He was a movie star (Jake Gyllenhaal?). I was an intern. The producer was my mentor (Jeanine Tesori?). I feel ashamed that seeing his name on a billboard or hearing his voice in a trailer can momentarily paralyze me. I remind myself how much I started to want him. That I spent a year and a half of my life convinced I was in love with him. I’d been interning for my mentor since I was 19, working on a total of six productions together. She had trusted me to care for Tony winners, promoted me to intern supervisor at my 20th birthday party, and believed in my writing when no one else did. I looked up and found the lead actor staring. He smiled at me, and I smiled back: he was the most famous person in the room yet he was the only one looking at me rather than through me. He’d ordered too much food and asked if I would join him for lunch. I declined, but he insisted, Come on. At least a salad? As the day wore on, I began to shiver in the air-conditioned room. He was in the middle of a scene when he ran over, placing his sweater on my bare legs. During lunch he confided, I’m glad I met you. Now I have a homie. I smiled, I’m your rehearsal homie and he shot back, Just in rehearsal? At the end of the day, we performed his big Act Two number for the director. Afterwards he looked my way, proclaiming, She’s fantastic. [...] Later the movie star whispered, Hi pretty, even though he was in the midst of a run-through. His fingers lingered on my skin, and my heart lurched. 

You must get guys hitting on you all the time, the movie star said. I shook my head, and he rolled his eyes, refusing to believe me. Insisting I live up to the image he had projected onto me. He grabbed my hand as we entered the studio, I’m stressed. And I like having you near me. I was mimicking his sleep patterns unknowingly: the word ‘fate’ teased the corners of my mind, like maybe this connection was larger than both of us. You should give into it. The flirting. It’s fun. That it was confusing and stressful, but that if I was also developing feelings for him? Unless, does it make you uncomfortable? he asked. And this is something I still beat myself up for: he gave me the opportunity to say, Yes it does. To say, I don’t like it when you grab my chin like I’m a doll or objectify me to the people we work with. But I hadn’t yet figured out it was natural to feel uncomfortable. Time had gone by, we’d built up a rapport, and I trusted him. So I said, No, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. And having spoken those words, I’ve wondered if I have a right to publish this essay. [...] He texted: We should hang out — just you and me. But this time I smiled, because he was awake too. He texted: Miss you and my smile grew. I showered quickly, agonized over which dress was the right dress. Rehearsal ended early. He caught me in the doorway, Are you going downtown? I nodded. I wish I could too. I just have this interview. Another nod, an understanding one. So I’m not gonna see you? He seemed disappointed, and I felt responsible, like I was somehow abandoning him. My mentor knew the movie star would be an insecure wreck, which was the last thing anyone needed. The show needed me. I walked to his dressing room and raised my fist to knock. I was debating whether this was a terrible idea when the door swung open, Hi. He smiled, providing all the encouragement I needed. He hugged me, You look beautiful. Let me look at you. I indulged him when he asked me to twirl around. He walked over, pulling me into his arms in front of everybody. I lauded, You were incredible! I’m so proud of you. He tightened his grip, his hands circling the bottom of my waist. Our noses were practically touching when his sister (Maggie Gyllenhaal?) approached to let him know she was leaving. He introduced me, leaving us alone when a flock of A-Listers came to find him. After a minute of small talk, she said she had to go home to her daughters. She seemed eager for our forced encounter to end. To be fair, she had probably met dozens of me. But to be fairer, shouldn’t she ask her brother to stop romancing interns? My phone lit up, the movie star: You looked very sexy tonight. Thank you for being there for me. I typed back: And you looked very handsome. Another text followed: We really need to spend time. Just you and me.  

The Times review was a rave. Ben Brantley tripped over his feet with praise, but the movie star kept his eyes downcast. He seemed happy to see me by intermission, You are so sexy. When do we get to be alone? During the second act, desire spread through my body for the first time. Everyone in that theatre had paid to see him, but he wanted me. It was an intoxicating realization, and it gave me the illusion that I was powerful. Once we were headed downtown, he unloaded: his performance hadn’t been as good, and the review I thought would make him happy had done the opposite. He now had to live up to the impossible standards Brantley had set for him. He looked me in the eye, the cerulean blue never ceasing to take my breath away. I was buttoning my coat when he suddenly took my face in his hands, and kissed me. He leaned his forehead against mine, I just had to kiss you. Somehow, the romance continued. Just when I thought he’d forgotten me, he would text: Hey you! My friends marveled as my phone lit up with his name. I played the game well, rarely initiating a conversation, prompting him to type: How come I don’t hear from you? Thirty-one days since our first kiss, we agreed to get together the Friday after Thanksgiving. I came back from Long Island early, asked what time we should meet. Hours later he replied that he was still in Vermont. When he texted the next day asking to meet up, I didn’t hesitate. My hair was straightened, my eyebrows plucked, my make-up delicately applied, my heart thumping as I rang the doorbell. 

Seeing him after a month of longing was painfully anti-climactic. He looked different, dark and brooding in a way I had previously only caught glimpses of. Conversation had always flowed in the busy rehearsal room, but now it felt forced. He didn’t waste much time, kissing me before I could sip my tea, maneuvering my body like we were performing a dance I was supposed to know the steps to. He backed me up against the fridge within seconds, swiftly moving us towards his bedroom, my top flung off before I could figure out how he’d done it. Things were moving too fast and my brain was trying to keep up. His hands were about to remove my bra and I felt scared by the ferocity of his desire but I didn’t know how to express any of it so I just stood there. Eventually my lips stopped kissing and he asked if everything was okay. This is totally embarrassing but I’m really hungry. I ran to my purse, pulling out a bag of dried edamame. I put my shirt on in between bites as he watched me with a bemused expression. He announced, You’re so different, and all I could think was: from who? He said: What’s on your mind? We were kissing earlier and then we stopped and… did you not want it? I could hear the same insecurities that had wracked him during rehearsal, and knew it was my job to make them evaporate. I wanted to kiss but not like that, not like I was an object. He was 35 and very experienced. I was just 23. His jeans were unbuttoned, his boxers pulled down, and as he maneuvered my body on top of his I realized that if he were to thrust upwards, we’d be doing something I wasn’t ready for. I blurted, I can’t have sex tonight. I could hear the irritation in his voice, Any particular reason? he asked. His tone changed: Of course. That’s totally ok. My breasts were still exposed when he turned to me: You know what’s on my mind? That you’re 23. And we met on the show and… did I somehow take advantage of things? When I looked at his face, I knew it was over. He made me promise I wouldn’t waste any more time before telling me he was glad we didn’t have sex that night. He stood abruptly: his flight was leaving early and he had to pack. My mother had cried when he’d texted confirming our date: everyone who heard the whirlwind tale thought we were meant to be. And now I’d ruined everything. Three months later, he texted: How are you? Hope all is well with you. I pinched myself until my skin was raw, certain I was dreaming. You haven’t seen the show! When I didn’t respond, he followed up with Have you? I admitted I had. Why didn’t you come say hi? I burst into the hysterical laughter of a woman who has justifiably gone insane. Weeks later I was having tea with an acquaintance when she brought up the movie star without knowing our history. Her friend was his publicist and was constantly putting out fires on his behalf. Apparently, he falls in love with these young interns and PAs on sight, pursues them obsessively, and then has some sort of freak out a month in and disappears. I felt like I was falling into an abyss, hearing about my life from someone else’s mouth. And people like my mentor probably tell themselves these young women are lucky, but I’m here to vehemently disagree. Because the aftermath that never ends? It isn’t worth the fairytale. Source: medium.com

Ben Brantley (October 25, 2016): Jake Gyllenhaal shines in a joyous ‘Sunday in the Park With George’, which opened in a gala performance on Monday night and runs only through Wednesday. Starring Mr. Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford, with a supporting cast that glows with top-drawer, Broadway-honed talent, this is one of those shows that seems destined to be forever spoken of with misty-eyed bragging rights by anyone who sees it. “I could look at her forever,” sings Mr. Gyllenhaal’s Seurat, as his model, Ms. Ashford’s Dot, sings in simple, stabbing harmony, “I could look at him forever.” Playing George (and George), the obsessive, intense misfit comes naturally to Mr. Gyllenhaal. (Did you see him in “Nightcrawler”?) But here he also demonstrates both the radiant, centered stillness that can anchor a crowded stage — a clarity within opacity — and, who knew, a voice of richly flexible timbre that confidently elicits the most delicate shades of passion and despair. At the end of their final, magnificently sung duet, “Move On,” about getting beyond the pettiness and obstacles of daily life, Mr. Gyllenhaal and Ms. Ashford shared the most rapt and embracing smiles I think I’ve ever seen on a stage. The idea to cast Gyllenhaal came from Jeanine Tesori, composer of "Fun Home" and an artistic adviser at City Center. The cast also features Phylicia Rashad, Phillip Boykin, and Carmen Cusack, who dined next to Domenica Feraud. Source: nytimes.com