The baby-faced sexpot interests me not at all. No, my thoughts recur to the later Lana: expensively dressed, perfectly coiffed, suffering, suffering, in swell surroundings. In films as in life, her specialty was taking the stand. Though she often broke down, sobbing, her woman's heart unable to bear any more, she was oddly blank: a lacquered mask, lovingly lit by expert technicians, and sometimes wearing a turban. What was it like to be Lana? I think I know, a little. I too have had to navigate my way through messy divorces, the vagaries of a career, the chaos of underfinanced productions— maintaining my composure on take after take, the pro who hits her marks, even as she's falling to pieces— I too have taken that deep, deep breath, ready to testify, to confess, to give my all, my everything— which, when viewed in the dailies, as the camera comes in for its closeup, isn't that much.

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