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markwatkinsconsumerguide · 4 years ago

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Consumer Guide / No.98 / American television, film and stage actress, Bernadette Quigley with Mark Watkins.

MW : What’s new?

BQ : Currently, work is sparse as most of my businesses have been shut down because of the COVID-19 pandemic. No films or television shows are being shot in NYC at this moment in time and most of my side businesses are on pause as well. This season’s gardening work didn’t happen at all (because NYC had not yet deemed gardening an essential service).

Thankfully, I have a few coaching (acting) clients I work with often and I had one job before this pandemic hit that I’m still working on - a press and radio campaign for Irish singer-songwriter Ultan Conlon’s beautiful new record, ‘There’s a Waltz’. It’s been gratifying to see reviewers agreeing with me that it’s Ultan’s finest record thus far!

MW : Tell me about your role in Law & Order...

BQ : Well, I had four Law & Order roles, actually. Two are on Law & Order: SVU and two are on the mothership Law & Order.

My first big role on SVU was of a victim, Jean Weston, on the season finale of their 2nd season, many moons ago. This character was a mother and wife from Oregon whose husband and son got stabbed to death by a serial killer – played by Richard Thompson.

I’ll never forget this role for many reasons but primarily it was a job where I discovered I could cry on cue. The director and producers decided they wanted to end the episode with a huge close up of my character, breaking down in the gallery in the courtroom. One of the producers shouted out, “Bernadette…can you cry on cue!?” I meekly replied, “Sure.” Next thing I hear was…”rolling….” and “ACTION”… I looked up, terrified I wouldn’t be able to summon up tears but imagined the hell my character went through and looked deeply into Chris Meloni’s eyes and …phew!...started to cry!

The Law & Order franchise has been a godsend for many actors. Not just financially, which it has and still is but for me, the experience I gained working on those shows led to a lot more television and film work over the years, so I’m forever grateful to creator/producer, Dick Wolf.

MW : What are your own views on law & order? Anything you’d like to see relaxed or tightened up on?

BQ : Feels very naïve and idealistic to say this, but I’d love to see major, police reform. Police brutality is despicable and out of control, especially in Black communities.

I believe we’re beginning to see the power of the Black Lives Matter movement resulting in some of these police officers losing their jobs and sometimes being arrested themselves for their unspeakable acts of violence, but I imagine we, as a nation, need to keep the pressure on. The police brutality simply has to stop. There has to be more consequences for those senseless deaths. There has to be better training, etc...

I’d also love to see major gun control in this country. I would love to see guns banned. Period. But that’s highly unrealistic as this country tragically has a major addiction to their gun culture. Perhaps someday we’ll have some common-sense gun control again such as background checks, and high-capacity magazine and semi-automatic assault weapon bans.

MW : What was it like working with Kenneth Branagh?

BQ : I suggested Kenneth’s play “Public Enemy” to the Irish Arts Center’s Artistic Director at the time, Nye Heron, and was emailing and talking with Kenneth’s assistant quite a lot before setting up a meeting with Kenneth and Nye.

I was flying high that I helped to secure the rights to his play. Kenneth then came to our first read-through, and he came back to see a preview or two. He was an absolute prince, kind, intelligent, caring, witty.

However, this success was so bittersweet because my dad died right before we opened the play, a performance I had dedicated to him before he died (because my dad loved Jimmy Cagney, and the main character of the play was obsessed with Cagney). The play got great reviews and we ran for five months. It was so difficult for me to fully appreciate the success of this show as I was mourning the most devastating loss of my life.

MW : Which "shelved" film appearance of yours should have seen the light of day?

BQ : There’s a provocative film I am in about a racial experiment that is under the radar called, “The Suspect” (2014), which stars Mekhi Phifer, Sterling K. Brown and William Sadler.

By the way, I am currently in three indie films that I’m psyched for the world to see: I play a lead role in “Darcy” which is available (worldwide) to stream on Herflix.com; “The Garden Left Behind” has just landed international distribution, so stay tuned for the release date! And finally, I have an interesting supporting role in a film called “Tahara” which had its world premiere at Slamdance in January and is slated for more film festivals.

MW : What makes a good film/TV critic? Can you name any?

BQ : One that doesn’t give the plot, or too much dialogue away. I often don’t read reviews of films, or television shows, I want to watch because I love going in – not being influenced by another’s opinion. But sometimes, I’ll read reviews afterwards to learn more about the evolution of a film or TV show. I often find myself agreeing with A.O.Scott’s (NY Times) film reviews.

MW : How do you usually prepare for an acting role, and has a character ever taken you over?

BQ : The first thing I do is read the script several times and see what the words are telling me about the character, and how other characters view that person. If it’s a period piece, I research the era or history surrounding the event in the play, or screenplay. Eventually, I forget my research, learn my words and hopefully let the character inhabit me emotionally, physically and psychologically, spiritually etc…and try my best to be fully present with the other actors I’m working with moment-to-moment. Every project is different.

Yes, there were times, I found it difficult to shut off the pain of a character after some performances. Two that come to mind are two intensely emotional theatre roles I performed at the Repertory of St. Louis, Elizabeth Proctor in “The Crucible”, and Agnes in “Bug”.

MW : Is performing on film different to TV as an acting discipline?

BQ : I think it all depends on the style of the film, or television show. With a TV show like Law & Order, it’s formulaic and heightened realism (acting style) and so one makes sure one knows every single word, and hits one’s marks, and if it calls for emoting then one must emote! Some films I’ve done are grittier-kitchen-sink realism. A very minimalistic style of acting.

MW : Has your song-writer husband ever penned a song for you?

BQ : Yes, many….Don (Rosler) primarily writes for and with other artists – on the John Margolis: Christine’s Refrigerator CD, there’s many tunes that speak to many moments within the course of our lives: the title track (altho’ the name was changed), “Scrap of Hope” (a pep talk to me when I was stuck at a temp job I hated), “Here’s Something You Don’t See Every Day” (a wedding reverie that literally started in Don’s mind when I fell asleep on his shoulder), and he wrote an exquisite lyric for Bobby McFerrin’s Grammy-nominated record VOCAbuLarieS, a song called “Brief Eternity”… where his words infuse my love for gardening: “Working in the garden has you... ...Breathing in the bloom and then you View the sunset view to move you Close to truly understanding Life and death but nothing ending Voices living on”…..

MW : Tell me about some of your favourite music...

BQ : My music tastes are pretty eclectic – besides all the indie artists I’ve done publicity for, I love so many styles of music from classical to folk to country but here’s some of my fave artists: Tom Waits, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Pink, Beyonce, Billie Holiday, Ani DiFranco, Ibeyi, Sinead O’Connor, Prince, Bjork, Leonard Cohen, Kacey Musgraves, K.D. Lang, Laura Mvula, Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles, Billy Bragg, and Randy Newman, among many others.

MW : ...and your favourite films....

BQ : Ohhhhh-so-many faves but a few, in no particular order :

Portrait Of A Lady On Fire (2019)

Parasite (2019)

Secrets & Lies (1996)

Vera Drake (2004)

Pain And Glory (2019)

Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind (2004)

BlacKkKlansman (2018)

A Fantastic Woman (2017)

Babette’s Feast (1987)

Coco (2017)

To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

Nights of Cabiria (1957)

The 400 Blows (1959)

12 Years A Slave (2013)

Jean de Florette (1986)

Trees Lounge (1996)

My Left Foot (1989)

In America (2002) (I know I’m biased but still…such a beautiful film)!

Annie Hall (1977)

My Beautiful Laundrette (1985)

My Brilliant Career (1979)

And I also love documentaries and a ton of old movies from the 1930’s and 1940’s, such as The Lady Eve (1941).

MW : ...plus your favourite books....

BQ : I’m currently reading this years New York Times Bestseller American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins (it’s excellent!).

Some of my all-time faves are :

Of Human Bondage ~ W. Somerset Maugham (1915)

A Confederacy Of Dunces ~ John Kennedy Toole (1980)

Angela’s Ashes ~ Frank McCourt (1996)

The Grapes Of Wrath ~ John Steinbeck (1939)

Lady Chatterley's Lover ~ D.H Lawrence (1960)

Olive Kitteridge ~ Elizabeth Strout (2008)

Americanah ~ Chimanda Ngozi Adichie (2013)

The Feast of Love ~ Charles Baxter (2000)

Everything Here Is Beautiful ~ Mira T. Lee (2008)

An American Tragedy ~ Theodore Dreiser (1925)

Sister Carrie ~ Theodore Dreiser (1900)

Act One ~ Moss Hart (1959)

Born A Crime ~ Trevor Noah (2016)

Wild : From Lost To Found On The Pacific Crest Trail ~ Cheryl Strayed (2012)

MW : You enjoy gardening. How is yours designed and tended to?

BQ : I don’t have my very own garden. I live in NYC and dream of having a country house with a garden of my own one day!

This is the reason I started a side business of urban gardening. My dad was an extraordinary gardener and after he died, I started tending to my mother’s flower gardens. Then I found myself volunteering at a neighborhood garden and that led to me working in other people’s gardens. Primarily small back gardens and some rooftop or balcony gardens.

I specialize in flowers, shrubs and trees and love planting lots of perennials (flowers and plants) with annuals so there’s lots of varying blossoms of different heights and textures, throughout spring, summer and fall.

When possible, if space allows, I also love incorporating foot paths, rock walls, or other elements in gardens – art/birdbaths/benches/statues that might be a sweet focal point but primarily I love the combinations of plants, trees, shrubs and flowers to be the focal points.

MW : Recommend five flowers...that every good garden should have!

BQ : Daffodils - one of the first signs of spring! Muscari (aka grape hyacinths) – the color (blue) is gorgeous, as is the scent. Climbing roses – the beauty and romantic history of roses. Anemone Robustissima (late blooming perennial flower). Lady Ferns (okay not a flower, but I’m a fern freak and I love ferns of all kinds!, but Lady ferns in particular are stunning when they sit beside most flowers or surround trees).

MW : How opinionated are you on current events? Would you like to be more, or less opinionated?

BQ : I’m extremely opinionated on current events but find it difficult to find ways to communicate my thoughts without screaming angrily from the rooftops and then of course not being heard. There are those that say we have an obligation to try to talk sense into people whose viewpoints are much more extreme than one’s own (either extreme conservative or extreme liberal).

I’m very liberal but am more pragmatic when it comes to progress, not perfection, so I’m very happy to enthusiastically vote for someone like Joe Biden or in 2016, Hillary Clinton, but I honestly don’t know how to reach people whose minds are already made up – people who either continue to justify their support for the current racist/narcissist/sexist/pathological liar-in-chief, or that justify their “protest” vote by falsely equivocating both candidates as “the same” or “the lesser of two evils”.

So yeah, I offend people at times because yes, I’m judgmental when it comes to politics and I most definitely believe in the power of protests, but believe just as strongly in the collective power of one’s vote and it drives me insane when others don’t show up and vote for local elections, and national ones.

I find I do hold back on Facebook, not because I’m afraid to voice my opinions but because it becomes too much of a time suck for me.

MW : What character traits frustrate you?

BQ : Impatience (in myself). Aggression (in myself and others).

MW : What’s the kindest thing another person has done for you?

BQ : I find this question so complex to answer. There are so many inexplicable moments in my life, where I’ve been blown away by many seemingly small gestures or kind words from strangers. And professionally, I’ve been truly blessed to work with some top-notch directors that gave me the gift of encouraging me to fully trust my artistic instincts.

When I was a child, my parents were not the type of people who conveyed their love in typically demonstrative ways, in ways that I honestly craved, so on the rare occasions when either one of them did utter something like “We’re proud of you”, or “I love you”, I was very moved by them going past their own comfort zones to express that kind of sentiment!

I’ve had many personal and professional challenges in my life and many of my siblings have been there for me over the years in ways I can’t really articulate without choking up. I also think having the courage to face one’s disagreements and past hurt, which comes with the territory of most friendships and relationships, is an act of kindness that I most value. Those I feel closest to have stuck it through with me by navigating through some painful, complex and messy misunderstandings. I’ll never forget those acts of kindness and generosity.

MW : What have you lost, growing older... and gained?

BQ : My mom died in January, and as I mentioned, my dad died many years ago. Sometimes I feel the depths of that loss – the fact that I don’t have my parents to share the ups and downs of the events of the rest of my life. Of course, I do have them close to my heart and their spirits live on….but damn I miss them! I’ve definitely gained a profound appreciation for them and their influence on me in countless ways.

On a professional level, as an older actress, unfortunately it’s easy to become invisible but I’m not ready to disappear and am joining the fight against ageism! I’m drawn to stories and filmmakers that include women and men of all ages, genders and ethnicities.

Perhaps if enough roles are not forthcoming in the next number of years, I’ll venture into writing and directing at some point.

MW : Where can we find out more / keep in touch?

BQ : Thanks so much, here’s a few links…!

https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0703489/

https://twitter.com/quigdette

https://www.instagram.com/quigdette/

https://www.facebook.com/bernadette.quigley.3

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernadette_Quigley

https://bernadettequigleymedia.wordpress.com/

https://bernadettetheconstantgardener.wordpress.com/bio/

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letspretendfictionpressworks · 4 years ago

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body language 6

We sleep a while, apparently. The late evening sun is long fallen, and the living room is limned in nothing but the pale streams of moonlight and a faint glow from the TV—still turned on, but the screen black—when something gently nudges me.

I lazily blink my eyes open. My pillow isn’t as soft as I’m used to, yet it’s oddly comfortable. My neck is complaining at the awkward angle the rest of my body is resting at, though.

“Hey.”

I lift my head and peer around the dark. I realize then that it was not, in fact, a pillow that I was laying on. It was Trevor’s side. As things outside of sleep and dreams come to me, I start to become cognizant of the fact that one of my arms is crumpled under me, the other is wrapped loosely around some part of Trevor (his stomach?), and my legs are tangled in something—his legs, I think, but I don’t look to check. Instead, I’m looking at Trevor, who’s speaking to me, and trying to convince my brain to make sense of his words.

“Maybe we should move to the bed,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

The bed. We tried that, and we didn’t get very far. Trevor has never been with another man, does not know how to be with another man, and I’m too tired to try to take him through the steps—

But my sleep-addled brain finally makes logic of that sentence. Trevor isn’t asking me to his bed for sex. Or, at least, I don’t think he is. But my thoughts can’t find each other yet, still lost in my dreams somewhere, and I can’t figure out how to work my tongue and mouth to form words to ask anything. Instead, I nod.

“You have to get up first,” Trevor tells me, managing to sound amused.

And, again, I don’t have the thought capacity to use my mouth and question or say anything, so I wordlessly sit up. Hide a yawn behind my hand. Trevor gets up and takes a few steps, and I’m momentarily confused where he’s going despite what he just said because my brain is still not working.

He notices my hesitation and returns to my side, gently nudges me to my feet, leads me to his bedroom. My thoughts are locked on the hand wrapped around mine, the warmth of those fingers and his palm. I’m startled when he gives me a small shove that results in me sprawling across his bed. I feel like I’m sleep walking, everything fuzzy and out of focus. But I never had a sleep walking experience before, so maybe that’s not what it’s like.

I open my mouth and try to remember how to speak, to say that I’m not sure I’m up for the task of leading Trevor through his first time with another guy, but the bed jerks again as he flops into it, very ungracefully. He rolls so he’s facing me and it’s his turn to hide a yawn.

“This is more comfortable, right?” he asks, his eyes already drifting shut, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

I’m too tired to feel the full brunt of embarrassment I normally would, too relieved that I’ve been invited to his bed to sleep with no further expectations. Perhaps as a result of that, I don’t think about it—I just move so that our bodies curve against each other, laying close enough to Trevor that it’s his body heat that keeps me warm as I return to the blissful oblivion of my dreams.

***

Ice cold. Wet. Freezing cold. Everywhere. Drenched in it.

I gasp as my eyes shoot open. I feel like I’m drowning in a frosted, winter lake. I wonder if I can break the sheet of ice that’s above me. I’m convinced that I’m not going to be able to breathe when I draw in breath. I think I’m going to suffocate.

But I sit up sit. There’s air. I’m breathing it and I feel it against my skin, chilling me and causing goosebumps to slide up over my skin. I’m wet, but I’m not drowning. I’m not even underwater.

I look around. The morning sun is slicing through the room, the bright rays almost painful to my eyes. Next to me, Trevor is sitting up, looking around. As equally confused as I am, apparently.

That’s when I see the woman, her face set into a fierce and stony expression, her eyes ablaze with rage. There’s a pitcher in her hand. The lid is removed, and she’s holding it at an angle that allows me to see that it’s empty.

Ah. I shiver, and understand now where the water came from.

“Wha?” Trevor mumbles, still piecing things together, still bleary and sleep-mussed.

“I,” the woman says, her voice firm and cold, “cannot believe this.”

Her voice jolts something in Trevor, and it hits me that I should be worried about how this woman got into the apartment. Does she have a key? I somehow doubt she’s a burglar. It sounds self-detrimental to wake the occupants of a house you’re trying to burglarize.

Trevor scrambles to his feet, an expression of disbelief on his face. He looks around for a shirt to cover his bare chest, and I wonder when that came off. The woman looks disgusted with him and throws a hand up in a dismissive gesture. I can’t even deal with you, it says. She turns to leave the bedroom with a disgusted scoff.

Trevor hurries to follow her, trying to figure out which hole of his shirt is appropriately sized for which part of his anatomy. I can only assume, then, that she is not a would-be thief. Yet, somehow, this does not comfort me.

“What are you doing here?” Trevor asks, a slight angle of something sharp in his voice. Not enough to cut, but enough to feel that the words aren’t entirely friendly.

“What am I doing here?” the woman asks, a more hysterical note to her voice, something close to incredulity. “I’m sorry—should I have knocked before I came into my apartment?”

Indeed, I am not comforted.

“It’s not your apartment,” Trevor says. “It’s mine. You were just staying with me, remember?”

“Yes, I think I remember that,” the woman retorts. “It was just you and me, not you and—who is that, exactly?”

I can only assume she gestures somehow to the bedroom and I shrivel, feeling like the intruder in this situation. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I can just disappear.

But I don’t disappear. Not even close.

So I move the blankets, hoping maybe I can hide myself under them. It’s childish and won’t solve anything, but my brain is still waking up, my thoughts feel a little sluggish, and maybe I’m hoping I can drift back off to sleep and find this has all been an odd dream. Pleasant at parts, and a shade away from a nightmare at others.

“Oh,” Trevor says, a bitter note resonating in that single word. “You take issue with finding me in my bed with someone else?”

There’s a sharp gasp, and I can only assume it’s from the woman. It’s a noise of betrayal, and it cuts at me like a blade.

I wonder if what Trevor and I did counts as true infidelity. Possibly. Probably.

These blankets are terrible, and I cannot hide under them. They are wet and cling to me, and it’s suffocating and I cannot stay under them, cannot convince them to make me vanish.

“I wanted to—I didn’t want—” the woman tries to say, but falters.

I am not so naïve as to believe that most people don’t cheat on their partners. Of course I’m not.

I used to allow people to rent my time and body in exchange for money. I never asked if the money that I received should have been spent on spouses or children. I never asked if someone was buying my time and body to escape a marriage.

It wasn’t my business to pry. It wasn’t my place to ask.

I know I played a hand in affairs and adultery before. I just never saw the offended party.

As it turns out, it’s a terrible thing to see.

After a moment of cutting silence, the woman speaks again.

“I wanted to come back and talk to you,” she says, sounding pleading and bitter at the same time.

“I thought we could fix things between us,” she says, her voice teetering away from its bitterness, more towards pleading.

“I thought we could get past this,” she says, all the sharp edges disappearing, replaced with a sad kind of vulnerability.

“I thought so, anyway,” she says, and she sounds on the verge of tears.

“How,” she says, her voice hardening with anger, “could you do this to me?”

I’m something worth reconsidering, I wanted to tell Trevor yesterday. I should have said it.

I can’t hide under the blankets. I can’t hide at all. So I move until I’m as far away from the door as I can be; so I can’t glimpse anything in the small window of visibility I could have if I wanted; so I can’t see anything except what is in this room with me now. The blanket, heavy with water. The sheets, damp with moisture. The pillows, still indented from where our heads laid minutes before.

I pull my legs up to my chest, my back resting against the headboard, and I close my eyes.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Trevor says, his voice too calm—the sort of false calm that comes from forced self-restraint. “I would have thought it was clear we were done when I found you and my best friend—in my bed.”

There’s a silence, so absolute that it has a knife-like sharpness to it.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against my knees. Wrap my arms around myself.

I just want to disappear.

“I—” the woman tries to say, but she gets no further.

“I don’t want to argue,” Trevor interrupts her. He sounds so very tired, so very suddenly. “And I don’t want to fight. Just leave your key and get out.”

There’s another silence, thick with tension. I can only imagine the wordless conversation—is she using her eyes to argue or plead her case?

But after several long moments, I hear a faint metallic clatter, and then a door opening and closing.

She gave up her key, apparently. She left. She’s gone.

I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.

Trevor returns to the bedroom, looking thoroughly disheveled. His hand is running through his hair, making it even look more mussed than sleep did. I peer up at him cautiously, still feeling nervous.

He sees me and freezes in the doorway. His hand falls out of his hair. It sticks up at odd angles.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and clears his throat. “I didn’t think…”

He drifts off, and I scramble for an explanation of what just happened.

Girlfriend, he said yesterday. His box of chocolates was for a girlfriend, right?

“That was…?” I try to ask, but my mouth, my throat, my tongue aren’t working. I can’t finish the question. My thoughts are moving too fast to allow me any brain activity to power my words.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Trevor says, offering me a tight, tense smile. “Newly so.”

“Oh,” I manage to say, a soft exhalation.

Trevor looks distracted, his own thoughts obliviously whirring, but for different reasons, over different things. I feel so very awkward and out of place, and I don’t belong here right now.

I try to express this to him, and I clear my throat. But my mind and my mouth are so very detached from one another right now. Words don’t come when I try to force them, so I clear my throat again and again, hoping at some point I’ll lodge the words free.

“I should go,” I finally manage, relaxing my stiff position to get to my feet.

Trevor looks surprised but doesn’t argue, moving aside from where he was leaning against the bedroom doorframe so I can pass. It isn’t until I’m slipping on my shoes and jacket, at the front door, about to leave, that I notice he’s followed me.

“Well,” Trevor says, a bit too loudly. He clears his throat, and I recognize it as the nervous gesture it is. It causes me to hesitate, to turn and face him.

“Well,” Trevor says again, “we never finished that movie. So you wanna come back over to finish watching it?”

I open and close and open my mouth.

“Friday, maybe? I get off around five, so would seven work for you?”

I close my mouth again. My tongue is as dry as sunbaked sand. But I manage to croak, “Yeah, seven works for me.”

There’s a flash of—something—that’s gone before I can register it. Then Trevor smiles, that small upturn of the one side of his mouth. “I’ll be waiting here for you then.”

“Okay,” I agree easily, yet again amazed at how his smiles offer me so much comfort.

But I still don’t feel like I belong here right now.

So I open the door to his apartment.

And I leave.

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