In 1978 the film Julia was nominated for 10 Academy Awards. Directed by Fred Zinnemann, the film starred Vanessa Redgrave, Jane Fonda, Jason Robards, and – Meryl Streep in her first film. Walter was among the nominees for the editing. Of the ten, Julia won in three categories; Jason for Best Supporting Actor, Vanessa for Best Supporting Actress, and Alvin Sargent for Adapted Screenplay. A few weeks earlier, the BAFTA awards in London had yielded a slightly different crop of awards from its ten nominations with Jane Fonda winning for Best Actress, Dougie Slocombe for Cinematography, Joan Bridge for Costume Design, and Producer Richard Roth for Best Picture. My mother and her pals, whom we had invited to the BAFTA awards dinner with us that year, also scored. With postwar frugality, she and her friends refused to leave opened bottles of wine on the table and so – to my total embarrassment – six bottles were deftly pocketed into Gabardine macintoshes and mink coats.

My mother had decided we were being far too serious about the whole awards business and wanted to liven the evening up a bit. “Why it’s just like a school prize giving”. And – as she often was – she was right. But looking back that year on Julia, spent in England having all four children with us, was for me the best of those film adventures that we shared. And when Julia came to an end and was received with critical and box office approval, we kept Fred company going to a few of those awards dinners, bolstering him in the disappointments and learning a thing or two about how the awards machines are oiled and work. At the Directors Guild Awards dinner, Fred quietly whispered why he believed he would not win, while we could see that he did ‘oh so want to’ – just one more time. Woody Allen won for Anne Hall, beating out George Lucas for Star Wars, Steven Spielberg for Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Herbert Ross for The Turning Point, and Fred with Julia. I’m sure I wore the same outfit – a long pale green dress with no particular flair, more discreet than outstanding, but a dress I felt safe in. By Oscar night, because there had been so much political publicity, we were all nervous. Fred nervous from his long-standing knowledge of Hollywood and its people had a saying, “I met him in 1938.” Meaning I know that type and that style. Our nervousness was because we didn’t know our way around this particular Hollywood. Vanessa Redgrave’s nomination for Best Supporting Actress was already causing a stir but she didn’t show any nervousness. The Jewish Defense League had openly objected to her nomination and were picketing that year’s Oscar Ceremony. Vanessa had narrated a film, ‘The Palestinian’ which was critical of Israel’s role in the conflict between Palestine and Israel – then – in 1977. Vanessa’s acceptance speech did not disappoint. There were boos among the applause and Vanessa never returned to work in Hollywood again.

Looking back on that year, and the politics that were uppermost in so many minds, it is hard to accept where we are now. Everything seems more – nothing seems less – and it is frightening for all of those paying attention. 86-year-old Vanessa, and others who have hit that 80-year date, still struggle and sometimes succeed to put the political and artistic work in a perspective that encourages those who follow. Looking back at that seemingly innocent time – but that was not – we are grateful for the work opportunities we had, and the friendships that grew and formed from mutual respect and bound us together. The friendship between Fred and Walter lasted up to and through Fred’s death. On an April spring afternoon in his office, Fred said, “I’m feeling a little tired. I will rest on the sofa.” On his own terms, it was a wonderfully discreet way to leave.

It seems like it has been raining on and off for weeks. Huge clusters of ladybugs have come inside in record numbers, finding their own warm spots, close to light bulbs and on my desk. The farm is saturated to sogginess. Overflowing water scurries down from the Mesa and bounces out from shallow ditches to collect in the fields, puddling in the low spots until it finds its way to another ditch flowing back to the road and beyond. It is as if the farm cradles the water, rocking it from one roadside to the other. The small roadside streams along the road into town are thick with mud pulled from the hillsides and I can’t even see the watercress that was just beginning to be ready for harvest. Now the Wolf Moon has arrived – gentle and mild while as bright and strong as the headlights from the harvesting trucks crossing the fields at three in the morning. The trucks bounce along, with their headlights shining into the hayloft waking me to watch them. I think of them, the drivers and the pickers, rolling out of bed at 2 am to gather the harvest and drive it to its destination by lunchtime. 

“Aggie’s breeding frogs.” says one friend to another when we meet in Point Reyes. His friend smiles, and she is not too sure what we are talking about. It is the night-time chorus from our hopelessly disused pond. Somehow – for all of my neglect, water gathers and holds within the reeds, rushes, and Irises and the little green and red-legged frogs settle down to call out to each other. It is at a particular moment in the rainstorms – as if the moonlight on water truly beckons them to sing and mate. There are more, bigger bodies of water up on the Mesa of our town, and for those living close by, the chorus is deafening. Recorder in hand we walk quietly along the driveway but still they hear us. Slowly, then suddenly, all is quiet again as they wait us out. We must leave before they start their singing again. 

Even as we slosh about in our boots outside in the dark this song of the frogs brings a smile to all our faces, begging relief from the horror of the wars’ continuum. Here in a failing pond, is a place of renewal and a sign of hope. 

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch