The Evita Diaries [ Vanity Fair - Nov 1996 ]

[laura fairhead]

MADONNA'S DIARIES ON THE SET OF EVITA, 1996

This is a diary of sorts: a sketchbook of feelings, ideas, and dreams, all
relating to one subject - the making of Evita. By the time this movie comes
out, I will have been living vicariously through her for two years. I remember
sitting down during Christmas of '94 and writing an impassioned letter to the
director, Alan Parker, listing the reasons why I was the only one who could
portray her, explaining that only I could understand her passion and her pain.
I can honestly say that I did not write this letter of my own free will. It was
as if some other force drove my hand across the page. Soon afterward I heard
from Alan and following several nerve-racking meetings the part was mine. This
was only the beginning of what turned out to be a great adventure. I could kick
myself for not starting my journal then, but there was so little time. I had to
learn the score, train my voice, and master the tango before flying to London
to record the sound track. Throughout the year I had the most extraordinary
experiences, and we hadn't even begun filming, so the month before shooting
began I made a promise to myself that I would write everything down that
happened to me. I had butterflies in my stomach and I knew I was in for the
ride of my life. I wanted to remember every detail. And so I began...

NEW YORK

Saturday January 13, 1996

After a series of delays, I've finally been given the go-ahead to fly
down to Buenos Aires. I desperately need the weeks before filming for
rehearsals, wardrobe fittings and camera tests. But, more important, I
need to explore and investigate the myth of Eva Peron. An Argentinean
journalist whom I met in London has agreed to meet me in B.A. and
arrange interviews with people who knew or worked with Eva, as well as
some anti-Peronists. Most are very old and I'm sure a good number will
be quite suspicious of me. I can hardly blame them if the me they know
is the one they've read about in the newspapers. I am prepared to
disarm all and get them to share their deepest, darkest secrets about
Eva.

BUENOS AIRES

Saturday, January 20

It's morning and I've just arrived in my hotel. It is grand in a
shabby way. High ceilings, big windows, and a lovely balcony. My only
complaint is that my room is on the second floor and my fans are
chanting "Eva/Madonna" and singing the words to my songs. This is very
flattering during the day but not so great at night when I'll be
trying to sleep. On the drive from the airport I twice saw graffiti
painted on the walls that said, EVITA LIVES, GET OUT, MADONNA. How's
that for a welcome? I have also read in the local newspapers that Alan
Parker, Antonio Banderas, who plays Che, and myself have been declared
personnae non gratae, which is a nice way of saying we are dirty
rotten scum. Of course, this is all coming from a very small group of
Peronists who are in desperate need of attention and aren't really
certain what they're protesting against. I'm sure they'd all come over
for tea if I invited them. None of this discourages me.

Sunday, January 21

Today I ventured out into the city for a series of interviews with
people who knew Evita. The most interesting was with Tuco Paz, who was
an Argentinean diplomat for more that 40 years. He met Eva when she
was 29 and is the first Peron to tell me how shy she was. He says that
her aggressive behavior was a nervous reaction to how insecure she
felt around certain people. He says that she had great character but
that many people were bored by her monolithic interest in politics.
Nothing else interested her. (That's only because Prada hadn't started
making dresses!) He said that Juan Peron coached her in public
speaking. Peron would sit in a chair and have Evita go behind him and
talk to the back of his head. Then he would throw out a series of
subjects which she would have to expound on. Peron constantly changed
the topic to keep her on her toes. So she wouldn't be nervous, he
would stay with his back to her. For some reason, I was very moved by
this story. It seems like a real act of love and caring for him to
have taken the time to do this. Tuco's apartment was lovely -- full of
old books beautiful Cubist art. Unfortunately, about 500 screaming
fans made my departure next to impossible. The police are not terribly
organized down here and I didn't have enough security, so the three
feet I walked from the building to the car were very scary. Somehow I
got pulled down to the ground for about three seconds. I managed to
crawl into the car and shut the door, only to find that one of my
shoes was missing and the heel was broken on the other. They were
Versace. Don't worry. When everyone was in the car we sped away, only
to discover that young girl was holding on to the roof of the car for
dear life. So we stopped and pulled her off as she kicked and screamed
and cried that she loved me. I wanted to give her the business card of
my shrink, but my driver drove away too fast.

Monday, January 22

Today I never left my prison cell so as to avoid any riots until the
security situation has been worked out. It wasn't so terrible. It
rained all day and the shutters to my bedroom windows kept banging
open and shut. I think the spirit of Eva was in my room. A wonderfully
well-groomed, fantastic-looking older gentleman named Hector
Villaneuva came to talk to me. He met Evita when she was 19 and
working at a radio station. He says he was very attracted to her, but
didn't do anything about it because he was married. (That doesn't
sound like any men I know.) It seems our dear Evita liked to drink
beer and go to boxing matches. A girl after my own heart! He said her
favorite meal was breaded pan-fried veal with a fried egg on top and
French fries. I'm going to try that tomorrow. The only was to eat
sensibly in this country is not to eat. The concept of nonfat has not
made its way here yet. I'm still trying to get used to my brown
contacts, which make me feel dizzy, nauseated, and permanently in the
dark. Or maybe this is what happens when you stay in your hotel room
all day. I've got to get our more - I'm starting to talk to my dog too
much. I could have sworn she said "Mama."

Tuesday, January 23

Today was the day from hell. Sort of. First, I slept like shit. The
children outside my window came at two-hour intervals all through the
night to beckon me to my balcony and profess undying love. Shakespeare
this was not. And why should they sleep? Everyone is unemployed - no
one has to get up and go to work in the morning. The only people
making any money are the press and they will go to any extreme to get
a picture or any information about me. I sometimes think my phones are
tapped, and wonder if every employee in this hotel is on the take.
There are camera lenses trained on me at every window and I have
hidden everything of value in a secret place because the safe looks
suspect. But just because I'm stuck in an uncivilized country doesn't
mean I can't have a little fun. I was determined to go sightseeing. We
devised an elaborate plan where my assistant, Caresse, would go out in
the car I usually ride around in and fake out fans and the press. The
ideas was to get everyone to follow my car without me in it. Then I
would leave in a van with my bodyguards, and all of us would lie on
the floor until the coast was clear. The great news is that it worked
and I went on with my sight-seeing trip unhassled. I went to
Recoletaf, the cemetery where Evita is buried. I have never been such
a beautiful, decadent, haunted place. There were hundreds of wild cats
everywhere and each mausoleum was more grand and exquisite than the
last - little tiny mansions with windows to view the caskets, which
are surrounded by gargoyles and statues and religious paintings and
plaques and wreaths and framed photographs. The dead live in style.
The bad news is what happened to Caresse. She was arrested and called
me on my cell phone from the police station completely hysterical. It
seems that the press were furious when they discovered that I was not
in the car. Caresses got out of the car and was attacked by the
paparazzi who proceeded to shove her around and call her a puta. So
she told the driver to take her back to the hotel. After they'd gone
about a mile, the police pulled her car over and started muttering
about a crime which implicated her. Of course, she didn't have her
passport, which in this place is a crime punishable by death.
Eventually Luciano, my Argentinean bodyguard, pulled some strings, and
five hours later Caresse was returned to us very shaken up. Then we
got the rest of the story. In Argentina, anyone can accuse another
person of a wrongdoing and have his or her house searched. Very often
the accused get hauled down to the station before they even know what
they've done! In this case, some members of the press were apparently
trying to frame me. Thank God I wasn't in that car. They had paid off
two teenagers to fall in front of the car when it drove out of the
underground driveway, and then they set out in hot pursuit to
apprehend the criminal (me, they thought), inform the police, and get
some juicy headline news about the famous celebrity who goes around
driving over unsuspecting fans. When they discovered that we had duped
them they decided to torture Caresse. By the time she arrived at the
station they were shouting "Murderess! Murderess!" I called the
producer and manager and threatened to quit unless they got some
secret-service guys down here to beef up security. Otherwise we'll all
be visiting police stations every time the papers want a story. Did I
already say how scary it was to be here? I guess this is the closest
thing to a dictatorship I'll ever experience. Did I leave out the part
about the horny cop that kept telling Caresse how beautiful she was
and running his finger through her hair?

Thursday, January 25

I continue to have bone-crushing entrances and exits whenever I go
out. Topnotch security arrives today. Let's see if it makes a
difference. I've got to stop reading the papers. I am portrayed either
as a stupid cunt who doesn't deserve to play Santa Evita or a spoiled
American movie star who has no interest in the truth. There are people
who appreciate what I'm trying to do here, but they're not very vocal.
Kindness is timid and evil is a ham. Went to a cocktail party last
night and collected everybody's germs. The custom here is to kiss
everyone instead of shaking hands. Was too tired to write and too
grouchy!

Friday, January 26

Went to dinner with the cinematographer of the movie. His name is
Darius Khondji and he's incredibly talented and completely lovable. We
had a long discussion about how there needs to be more unity on the
film and how people have to stop being negative and complaining about
being here. Of course, that's easy for him to say - people don't jump
him and attempt to rip off his clothes and strangle him every time he
tries to go outside. Still, he has a good point in that there needs to
be more positively and togetherness among the people making this film
or we will never survive the shoot. I came home feeling very upbeat,
but the phone rang and it was Freddy, my manager, telling me that it
was in the news that I was receiving death threats and that I must
immediately come home. He doesn't understand that all Latinos
exaggerate and are all over the top. If only people would report the
good things. For instance, the Old Guard whom I met have spoken to the
press, and there have been a lot of favorable articles. I think the
tide is gradually turning. President Menem may finally agree to meet
with me. I didn't come all the way to Buenos Aires to sing "Don't Cry
For Me Argentina" on a soundstage. I told Freddy to relax, put in my
earplugs, an went to sleep.

Saturday, January 27

Dreamt last night that there was going to be a big earthquake and it
was going to destroy the world. I ran around trying to pack my
suitcase but stopped when I realized I wouldn't really need to pack.
Met with a brilliant Argentinean historian named Jose Luis Peco, who
spoke to me for three hours about Argentinean history and the Peronist
movement. Wonderful man, but he kept getting up to go to the bathroom.
Maybe he only has one kidney. Later on I had drinks with Placido
Domingo, who was very charming and said he had turned down Alan
Parker's offer to play Peron. After speaking to me for 20 minutes he
said he regretted saying no. Latin men were put on this earth to charm
women. And torture them!

Later:

Did makeup and hair tests and finally settled on a brown wig for the
younger Eva that didn't make me look like a cocker spaniel. Against
the wishes of my security I went out on my balcony and waved to about
500 screaming fans. I blew them several kisses and saw the tears in
their eyes and it almost made me cry. I thought if I went out and
waved to them they might be less ferocious when I go out to dinner. We
shall see.

Sunday, January 28

Finally slept last night - deeply and sweetly. Of course, I wasn't in
my room. I've been sleeping in a room the size of a broom closet
upstairs to avoid the noise in my suite. Sneaked out this morning in
what I thought was a disguise to walk around the street fairs of San
Telmo. People recognized me and stared, but no one attacked me.
Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable and after an hour of being gawked
at I came back to my hotel prison and sulked. I needed some peace and
quiet!

Tuesday, January 30

I seem to have misplaced a diary entry. Or else I've misplaced a day,
which isn't difficult to do in this godforsaken place. Every day is a
new and interesting form of chaos. Yesterday my trainer arrived and
thank God. It would be very easy to get enormously fat ass on this
shoot, as there are no gyms and no decent food. I made a solemn
promise to myself to start eating better, but every time I go to a
meeting or an interview, someone whips out the tray of croissants and
petits fours and bonbons and I'm so hungry I'm forced to inhale a few.
Etiquette alone demands that you at least sample the lard sandwiches.
I went to the National Library with Xavier Fernandez, a die-hard
Peronist and a very charming man. The library was built on the exact
same spot where the Perons lived and where Evita died. I asked the
director of the library where the house went. It seems the
Argentineans, in their true hotheaded fashion, demolished the house
brick by brick until there was nothing left but the dirt! This, of
course, did not happen until Eva died and Peron had fallen out of
favor and fled the country. (It's very easy to fall of favor here.)
Years later when Peronism was fashionable again, the National Library
was built as a sort of memorial to Evita, and there's an enormous
amount of research material pertaining to her there. Another glaring
example of the fickleness of this country. First, she's a queen and
she lives in a palace, then she dies and you're assassinated if you
speak her name. Finally, years later she's a saint who can do no
wrong. The library director is a true man of letters. We talked about
Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez and then discussed cinema:
Renoir, Godard, Bunuel, Pasolini, Cocteau, Rossellini, and Visconti.
Whew! I had a butter sandwich and a chocolate truffle and ran off to a
cocktail party to mingle with the creme de la creme of B.A. Ha! As I
walked in the door, hoping for champagne. I was served a glass of warm
water which tasted like it had been chlorinated. Met the British
ambassador and lots of radio and television personalities and the man
who owns all the soccer teams. There were a few rakish-looking young
men with very long hair and lust in their eyes, and I think I was
supposed to take one of them home with me, but I was too tired to be
shallow, so at 10:30 I bid everyone adieu and ran into the elevator
with my escort, Victor Alfaro. Of course, I had to pose for a zillion
photographs before I left. I felt very empty riding down in that
elevator. I suddenly missed my friends terribly.

Wednesday, January 31

Slept in silence at last. I moved upstairs to the top floor. It's not
much bigger than the broom closet but at least I can't hear the fans
screaming on the street. Forgot to mention that I met with the chief
of police and his first lieutenant. Two very charming and handsome men
- what else is new? They assured me that they were going to look after
me and that I shouldn't worry about death threats. What, me worry? We
discussed Peronism and of course Evita and how her enemies were
divided into two camps, the aristocracy and the Communists. The
lieutenant said he admired Evita but he was not a Peronist. Then he
said the most amazing thing - that people were angry with Evita in her
day for the same reason they were angry with me today. That we are
women with power. Then we began discussing reincarnation and he
started quoting Oscar Wilde. Something about Art imitating Life. I was
quite stunned for his macho appearance did not prepare me for his
sensitive and perceptive point of view. Don't judge a federal
policeman by his uniform! Tonight I am having a drink with Constancio
Vigil, supposedly Menem's best friend. We shall see!

Thursday, February 1

Woke up exhausted from my dreams. I was defending myself. Trying to
stay alive. Fighting for...what? I splashed cold water on my face,
looked into the mirror, and noticed a red indentation in my forehead.
A wound I received in my nocturnal battle. Did I unconsciously hurt
myself? This must be a result of the conversation I had with
Constancio, who tried to explain to me why the president cannot agree
to a meeting with me. Yet. Of course, he didn't tell me anything I
didn't already know, and I must say it was a bit of an insult to
discover that the president has had lunch with Claudia Schiffer and
entertained the Rolling Stones and he is not free to meet with me.
Once again this proves my point that that if you have an opinion or
stand for something in this world you are considered a threat.
Something to be feared. We discussed politics in this country and how,
by privatizing industries, Menem is trying to undo the damage that
Peron did. I asked why he calls himself a Peronist if in fact his
policies are so different. His answer was that he was doing Peron
would do if he were in office now. Good answer. This is why we call
them politicians. I spent the rest of my conversation defending myself
and the choices I've made in my career. I often say I have no regrets,
but I suppose in the end I do. If I had known that I would be so
universally misunderstood, maybe I wouldn't have been so rebellious
and outspoken. I never thought I'd say these words, but I am so tired
of having to explain myself and I am so tired of being told, "You're
so intelligent! Not what I expected at all!" Could an idiot have come
this far in life? I wonder if I could ever have been the kind of
sweet, submissive, feminine girl that the entire world idealizes. I'm
trying to stay positive, but I felt like crying all day. I'm so sick
of seeing unflattering paparazzi photos of myself in magazines and
newspapers. They find the ugliest ones and blow them up just to
torture me. There's a really good one where it looks like my security
guard is grabbing my breast. My hair is completely messed up and I
look like I just received electric shock treatment. Charming. All
through my fittings and my rehearsals I felt like the honesty girl at
the dance whom nobody wanted to dance with. Darius came over to have
dinner with me and he was depressed, too. A friend of his was killed
in a car accident. We tried to cheer each other up. He calls me Lola
Spaghetti and I call him Mr. Basmati. He makes me laugh.

Friday, February 2

Dreamt last night that Sharon Stone invited me to her house because
she wanted to know me better. I went, with some suspicion, and when I
arrived she was taking a bath with a red dress on and all her makeup.
Then we heard voices outside and the doorbell rang and Sharon
immediately submerged her face under the water to prove to me that she
didn't care if people saw her looking bad. When I opened the door
Courtney Love was standing there in a torn dress, waving a gun at me
and slurring her words: "I know you guys are in there -- I'm going to
shoot you both." Then she bursts out laughing, saying it was only a
joke. My dog started barking and woke me up. Thank God. Another reason
not to take Xanax to sleep. I'm so tired today. At dance rehearsals I
worked with four tango dancers, or milongueros, and they each scared
me in a different way. Three were older and funny-looking. One was
younger and funny-looking. I thought I was a pretty decent tango
dancer until I danced with these guys, The older ones were patient,
but the younger one kept trying to show off and he was wearing too
much cologne. I love to tango, but I need to practice more, so I'm
going dancing with them all on Sunday night. Tonight I have another
top-secret meeting with Constancio. I hope he's going to bring good
news about the president. Tomorrow, Antonio Banderas arrives. The
press is trying to make a big deal about my competing with his
girlfriend, which is ludicrous because everyone knows I would never
date a man who wears cowboy boots.

Sunday, February 4

What a night! I decided to have a cocktail party and invite the Old
Guard, whom I have been courting for the past two weeks, as a
thank-you. I wanted Alan Parker to meet them as well, so I invited him
and the rest of the creative team working on the movie. Wardrobe,
Hair, Makeup, Production Design, etc., etc. I had it in one of the
ornate ballrooms on the first floors and put up one of the paintings I
had found in San Telmo on the fireplace mantel, lit candles
everywhere, and turned off all the lights. Mambo and tango music
played in the background. Very romantic. At one point Vince Paterson,
the choreographer, asked me to dance a mambo with him, and the dance
floor cleared and we showed these old Argentineans a thing or two.
This made me homesick for Miami. I love to dance mambo music. P.S. The
president has agreed to meet with me Wednesday evening on an island
off the coast. Apparently we can go only by boat or helicopter. It's
all very hush-hush.

Monday, February 5

I'm sick to my stomach and I have the chills. Is it because I got up
at the crack of dawn after two hours of sleep? Is it because I ate an
entire box of graham crackers in 10 minutes? Is it because the press
conference is tomorrow and I have butterflies in my stomach? Or is it
because of the cholera epidenim that is slowly making its way into
town? Whatever it is, I hope it goes away. I have enough to worry
about. Tomorrow I have to face the conservative minority who are
violently opposed to the making of this film. They're going to ask me
stupid questions. They're going to ask me if I am a Catholic and if I
wear underwear and if I'm a lonely person. Yes. Yes. Sometimes.

Tuesday, February 6

Thank God that's over with. A press conference is worth 100 trips to
the dentist. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure the whole room
could hear it. It wasn't as bad as I expected. Only a few cranky
questions from a few women who looked like they didn't have enough
love in their lives. Jonathan Pryce, who plays Juan Peron, was very
witty. Several very good-looking boys sat in the front row blowing me
kisses and mouthing the words "I love you." This cheered me up
immensely. I continue to read negative press negative press from
around the world, including the US, that somehow still manages to hurt
my feelings. I will never get used to the hostility that comes from
fear and envy. That basic human desire that most people have to see
another person fail. On a good note David Caddick, the music director,
whom I adore, has arrived and I'm going out to dinner with him. I'm so
excited to see him! Oh yeah, a choir came to sing to me outside my
window. It sounded beautiful.

Thursday, February 8

Last night I dreamed of Evita. I was outside watching her. I was her.
I felt her sadness and her restlessness. I felt hungry and unsatisfied
and in a hurry. Juan as I had earlier in the helicopter, suspended on
earth, on the way to meet President Menem. As I gazed down on all of
B.A., my mind started drifting. I tried to imagine how I would react
and what I would do if, like Evita, I knew I had cancer and I was
dying. I could finally understand the feverish pace at which Evita
lived during her last few years. She wanted her life to matter. She
didn't have time for the beauracracies of the government. She needed
results. The idea of death is not so horrible if one can leave behind
a legacy, and Eva did not want to be remembered as a girl from the
sticks, or a B actress, or the wife of the president. She wanted to be
remembered for her goodness. The desire of someone who has live her
life completely misunderstood. President Menem was very charming. I
was surprised at how much I liked him. Our helicopter landed on the
grounds of a beautiful estate in the middle of the delta in El Tigre.
Hundreds of flamingos scattered out of our way. As I walked toward the
president (small, defiant, and tan) a baby deer came up to me and
nuzzled my side as if to say, "Don't be nervous, you are welcome
here." It was like a fairy tale. He was surrounded by very
suspicious-looking men and a very pretty older woman who acted as our
translator. We sat down immediately, his eyes going over every inch of
me, looking right through me. A very seductive man. I noticed that he
had small feet and dyes his hair black. He told me that I looked just
like Evita, whom he had met when he was a very young man. We talked
about how fanatical I had become about knowing absolutely everything
about her. He did not take his eyes off me. The mosquitoes started to
devour us, so we went inside. The kind man who owned the house brought
out champagne and caviar, which I couldn't resist, and I decided to
play Menem some of the music so he could understand the mood of what
we are trying to accomplish. When I played him the new song, which Eva
sings to Peron when she finds out she is dying, I could see a tear
fall from his eye. I noticed that two men followed Menem everywhere,
catering to his every need. They seem to be completely in love with
the president. They had very bad hairdos and kept eyeing me
suspiciously. I caught Menem looking at my bra strap, which was
showing ever so slightly. He continued doing this throughout the
evening with his piercing eyes, and when I caught him staring, his
eyes stayed with mine. We started to talk about reincarnation and God
and psychic phenomena and he said he believed in the power of magic.
He said one always has to have faith in the things that cannot be
explained. Like God. And I thought of a line in The Alchemist that
goes something like "If you want something bad enough the whole earth
conspires to help you get it." And I took a deep earth and said, "Yes,
that's why I believe that you will change your mind and allow us to
film on the balcony of the Casa Rosada." The whole table went quiet
and he looked at me for a moment and said, " Anything is possible." My
heart was in my shoe. Then the owner said it was time for dinner, and
the president stood up and asked me if I wanted to wash my hands. I
thought it was a rather strange question, but I figured he was a
hygiene freak or something. Maybe I looked dirty. Maybe he wanted me
to leave the room so he could talk to me. I spent a good deal of time
snooping around in the bathroom and checking out the decor of the
second floor. I must have been up there for at least 15 minutes and
when I came downstairs the men were all standing around the table
waiting for me to sit down. The president pulled out my chair, and
when I sat, everyone else sat. Chivalry is not dead! Dinner was
strangely bland, but the conversation was not. We talked about
everything from Mao Tse-tung to mambo. At 11, we all ran out to the
helicopter, waiting for us like a giant insect. The president took my
face in his hands, kissed me on the cheeks, and wished me good luck.
We flew away and I was floating inside of the cabin the whole way
home. He had worked his magic on me. I can only hope I did the same.

Friday, February 9

There are no words to describe the weariness I feel today. I have not
slept well in days, and even when I do, there is no comfort. My dreams
are violent and full of betrayal. Like my life, there is no escape. I
feel the weight of the responsibility of this film. I cannot talk
about Evita and her life without defending myself. I am watched
wherever I go. Criticized for being outspoken and ridiculed for
staying quiet. Inside my head there is never silence. I feel at any
moment that I could break. I want to cry for all the sadness in the
world, but mostly my own. Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?
What is happening to me?

Sunday, February 11

Yesterday, with much planning, I managed to escape for the day lying
down in the back of a truck with a blanket over me. Once we were
outside the city limits, I could sit in the front of the car and enjoy
the countryside going by. No police escort, no bodyguards, no cameras,
no noise. I was on my way to a private ranch owned by the company that
is distributing our movie in Argentina. My driver was one of the
partners in the company, and he happens to be a polo player who owns
many polo horses. After driving for an hour we ended up on a narrow
dirt road which led to a series of farms and ranches. We stopped at
the last one. When I got out of the truck, six of the dirtiest dogs
jumped all over me, covering me with mud. Children belonging to
caretakers were laughing in the distance and the flatlands stretched
out as far as the eye could see. Cows were grazing in the fields and
beautiful shiny polo horses were posed like statues all around me. It
was like a dream. One I never wanted to leave. The house itself was a
standard pueblo ranch with an inviting porch that went all the way
around it and the comforting shade of some very old trees. I was
perfectly content to sit on the porch and watch the caretakers feed
the horses and rake the leaves. To do nothing, to not be watched, to
be anonymous. After much urging by the caretakers I summoned up the
courage to get on one of the horses. Satin pants and Prada shoes are
hardly appropriate riding apparel. Nevertheless I managed to walk and
eventually ride at a very slow trot. I imagined myself galloping
through the countryside at full speed without a care in the world, the
wind in my hair. I thought to myself, I could have this life if I
wanted it. Children and a husband waiting to have lunch with me. And
then I remembered I had about eight months of work ahead of me. A girl
can dream, can't she?

Monday, February 12 Today I met the actress who plays my mother in the
film and I love her. She's an old soul and she's been hurt, but she's
a survivor. Her English is as good as my Spanish, but we speak the
language of hurt people, so all is understood. She told me about a
dream she had recently. I was a child and I was pressing my head
against her belly, and when I looked up, there was a golden light
around my head. Then I told her I wanted to go back inside of her womb
and I began to cry. If only she knew how close to the truth this is.
Maybe she does. Mis lagrimas son para t. Recuerda el sueno! Then she
gave me a beautiful antique emerald ring she was wearing. There was a
demonstration in my honor yesterday afternoon. All of my fans got
together and marched from the Obelisco (a monument in the middle of
the Avenida Nuevo de Julio) all the way to my hotel. When they arrived
they chanted "Eva"/"Madonna" for a while, then they had 10 minutes of
silence. Then they started to play "Like A Prayer," and at this point
I went out to the balcony and waved and blew kisses and almost started
to cry. My life is surreal down here. I have given up on sleep and
happiness as I know it. There is something else to be learned here.
Tomorrow is my first day of shooting as the young Eva and I am beyond
nervous.

Tuesday, February 13

I made it through the first day of filming after spending most of the
day inhaling poisonous smoke billowing from an ancient train, scraping
dirt from the inside of my contacts, and eating enormous amounts of
dust. It was dry. It was hot. There was dust. Everywhere. The first
half of the day was fun and easy. Saying my good-byes to my family at
the train station on my way to the big city. I love all the actresses
playing my sisters. Two are English and one is Cuban and I've grown so
attached to them that it was not difficult to imagine how sad I would
be to leave them. We finished the scene by lunchtime and all the
actors left and took the fun with them. The rest of the day I sat on
the train with a lot of strange extras (none of whom spoke English)
and reacted to the passing scenery over and over again from every
angle, inside and out. The only problem besides the fact that I was
dying from heat exhaustion and was being made a meal of by ants,
flies, and hornets was that the scenery was dull and lifeless and
there was nothing to look at. Yes, I know this is where the acting
comes in... Alan didn't seem to notice the heat or the flies. In fact,
I'd never seen him so excited and alive. It wasn't until the last shot
of the day that I realized why it was so important to shoot the movie
here. We were doing a wide shot of my train whizzing across the
countryside and 20 gauchos came galloping through the frame over the
prairie as the sun went down. I have never seen such a majestic sight.
Still, the day ended for me in an anticlimactic way. I went from
extreme anxiety and nervousness to elation and then on to boredom and
self-doubt. I kept saying to myself over and over again, "When is
something really exciting going to happen to me!" I think I may have
said it out loud a few times while we rolled back and forth on the
dusty tracks, just after the extras. I'm sure they all thought I was
mad. And it wasn't until now, as I write this, that I realize that
that's surely what Eva must have been saying to herself as she left
her dusty little village on her way to a better life. Little did she
know. Little did I know.

Thursday, February 15

Valentine's Day came and went and I scored very low in the valentine
department. Receiving flowers from my accountant is not my idea of
romance. I am mistrustful of flowers from people who make a percentage
of my gross income. Today's work was a lot more fun because we
actually got to shoot a scene where people were talking/singing to
each other. I had to flirt with lots of men, dance the tango, and
leave the owner of a magazine for the owner of a soap company. Is this
moving up? I'm not sure. At least I will be clean all the time. This
is the part of the script I find a little dodgey. The implication that
Eva slept her way to the top. I guess I am even more offended by it
because people always imply that about me. It's a way for envious
people to undermine your strength and your accomplishments. My wig
feels like a vise grip on my head. I have decided that acting in
movies is a very humiliating job. People sit around all day
scrutinizing you, turning you from left to right, whispering behind
the camera, cutting your nose hairs, plucking stray eyebrow hairs, and
patting down your sweat while they fill in the lines on your face with
spackle. When they are setting up the next shot, you are told to go
and wait in your trailer like a good little doggy and this is where
you have ample time to be hypercritical of yourself. You wonder if
you're pretty enough or good enough or thin enough or attractive
enough and you inevitably feel like a slab of beef. Rare, medium, or
well done. It doesn't matter as long as people want to eat you.

Saturday, February 17

The last few days of shooting have gone by without too much fanfare.
Yesterday we watched a people match with the aristocrats and I was
little more than set dressing. I have never felt heat from the sun
with such intensity. Today I had to be up at the crack of dawn for one
hour of good light on the sidewalk between eight and nine A.M. Then I
spent the rest of the day waiting for the next good light, which was
at five P.M. I went a bit crazy and started making up a dance routine
a la Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. My dressing room was inside as
old courthouse which had stained-glass windows and high ceilings. It
really looked more like a church, but it had lots of good stair and
pillars to dance around, and for hours I pretended I was Ziegfeld
Follies.

Monday, February 19

Today is my first day off in a week and I am practically catatonic. I
am finally in synch with the US where it is Presidents' Day and
everyone has the day off. Why do we celebrate the men who rule our
nation when we ultimately have only contempt for them? Went to dinner
with David Caddick and my movie family and we entertained ourselves
with imitations of Jodie Foster in Nell and gossip about who's
sleeping with whom on the set of the movie. Which is just about
everyone. It's a real soap opera and I hoard and relish the secrets I
have been told about various philandering husbands and so-and-so's
boyfriend, who's sleeping with so-and-so's sister. For some reason
people feel the need to confess things to me. It must be my
trustworthy face. After dinner we went to a milonga club so I could
brush up on my tango. When we walked in, it looked like we were
interrupting a bingo game. There were folding tables and chairs around
a big empty space, fabulous fluorescent lighting, and no one under the
age of 60. Lots of stretch pants, gold lame, and sequins. It was a
scene straight out of Good Fellas. The only thing missing was Joe
Pesci.

Wednesday, February 21

Perhaps I have been bitten by a tsetse fly. I have an uncontrollable
urge to sleep from the moment I wake up to the moment when it is
actually permissible. My insomnia has reversed itself. The heat makes
me lethargic, and the endless sitting around and waiting, which I will
never get used to, make me feel like a body that has been deserted.
Today I wanted to cry from frustration. We've been shooting all week
in a beautiful old school, and for security reasons my makeup, hair,
and wardrobe are all in the principal's office, which is very posh and
ritzy-looking. High ceilings and old-master paintings on the walls.
Giant leather chairs and Venetian chandeliers. I would have gotten
myself sent to the principal's office all the time if this had been
what I had to look forward to. There are balconies and marble
staircases everywhere and a huge science room that looks like a museum
of natural history. It's hard to imagine small children running around
in the hallways. I spent my free time looking at stuffed mammals and
ancient artifacts, but nothing could distract me from my feeling of
uselessness. I call this photo-opportunity week. We are shooting
several montage sequences of Eva doing her charity work. So all day
long I am handing out shoes and bicycles and medicine to poor children
and posing for cameras. There is no dialogue - just a lot of kissing
and hugging and costume changes. Snore. Speaking of balconies, we have
been formally invited to an audience with the president to his private
residence. We will grovel if we must.

Thursday, February 22

Last night I dreamed that I was pursuing a director I was once in
love with and he invited me into his home to tell me that he couldn't
be with me. I sat at his kitchen table on the verge of tears. Then he
said to me, "You once described a man's body as powerful. What is your
definition of power now?" and I replied, "Power is being told you are
not loved and not being destroyed by it."

Friday, February 23

It's raining cats and dogs and as much as I love the idea of a day off
I was disappointed when most of the day's work was canceled. It was my
first scene where I give a speech to the workers from the back of a
truck while Peron is in prison. I was all psyched and ready to emit a
little fire and brimstone, but Mother Nature is not cooperating with
us today. We did have a lively little chat with Menem at his private
residence. It was not as much fun as the first meeting. Alan, Antonio,
and Jonathan were there, and it was much more formal. Alan was
basically reiterating what he had said in the press conference about
having freedom as artists, and everyone was being very polite and I
couldn't take it anymore. So in the middle of the discussion about
pizza I said, " When we're done talking about pizza can we talk about
balconies?" And Menem said that he was sure there would be no problem
if we used it an and any other government building we wanted. I was
ready to jump for joy, but Alan shot me down by saying that we'd
already spent so much money on a replica of it in London that
financially it wouldn't make sense to shoot here. Not to mention the
fact that we did not have the proper lighting equipment. But hadn't
the reason for the meetings been to convince him to let us shoot on
the balcony? And what an honor and a thrill to be able to stand there
looking down on that plaza at night filled with all those people,
singing " Don't Cry For Me Argentina." Hopefully, Alan will change his
mind. I will consult the stars and work my voodoo. Forgot to mention
Menem's daughter, Zulemita, who also attended the meeting. A thing
wisp of a girl who seemed very fragile and very sad. She held her
father's hand through the entire meeting and they kissed and whispered
things to each other in a very intimate way. I was mesmerized by them.

Saturday February 24

Woke up this morning with tears streaming down my face and a wet
pillowcase. I dreamed that I was Evita and I was watching the finished
version of the movie we are making in a screening room all by myself.
As I watched the film I realized for the first time that I was dead
and I began to cry and soon I was choking on my own tears and sobbing
violently and then I woke up.

Monday, February 26

The last two days were night shoots and I woke up both mornings
feeling ravaged. Unlike everyone in this city, I am not a night
person. My body rejects the idea of being ordered around and following
directions at after midnight. We filmed in La Boca district, which was
once a very chic area, but in the 20s yellow fever swept the
neighborhood and the rich moved to another part of town, making way
for an onslaught of Italian immigrants. Today it is still inhabited by
poor immigrants who showed they were not happy to have us there by
throwing rocks. We had to work around them and I spent the night
listening to catcalls and sixty old men throwing me kisses and making
lurid propositions. There were children everywhere begging for money
and between takes they would swoop down like birds on the tables
outside the cafe's where the extras were sitting and gobble up all the
food and run away. I have to say I found myself rooting them on.

Wednesday, February 28

As I descended further in to this labyrinth called movie making I am
stunned by the number of possibilities for feeling lonely and
alienated. While I have become more and more accepted by the
Argentineans, I feel increasingly more cut off from the rest of the
world. I rarely speak to my friends and when I do I find it impossible
to share what I am experiencing. In the beginning I received letters
and car packages all the time. Now I come home and my fax machine is
empty and there are no phone messages. My family and friends are the
people in the movie. They have seen me bare my soul and yet they know
nothing about me. There is a kind of shyness that occurs when someone
is required to be extremely vulnerable in front of complete strangers.
When you are lonely you notice things that you otherwise wouldn't.
Like the cricket in my room. I don't know how she got in and I cannot
see her, but I know she's here to warn me it's going to be another
blisteringly hot day. Perhaps it will rain.

Saturday, March 2

I am so disappointed. I have just seen the shooting schedule for our
last two weeks in Argentina and we will not be shooting on the balcony
of the Casa Rosada. Now I will have to settle for a set on a
soundstage looking at a bunch of crew guys and the will film my P.O.V.
of the crowd in Budapest. I hate settling. Why should we settle when
we have the real thing? Today we filmed in the shantytown which
doubles for the village I leave to go to the big city. It's right next
door to a slaughterhouse and all day we had to smell the rotting decay
of animal flesh. We were told that the diseased cows are not
slaughtered but instead cooked in a giant vat of boiling water. What
we smell is the remainder of the bones and fat cooking. At first we
all felt like retching. Then we got used to it. It's amazing what you
can adapt to when you have no choice.

Tuesday, March 5

Friday has come to visit me and brought me massive amounts of caramel
corn, Fiddle Faddle, peanut brittle, and licorice whips. This is by
the way, fairly reliable way to get to do things I'm not keen on
doing. Which is exactly what I did yesterday. A video on my day off!
I'm so immersed in the life of Eva Peron and the movie music that I
could not remember the words to my own song, no matter how many times
I tried. It felt funny to be me with green eyes, hair down, and Gucci
caftan. I consciously rejected the idea of being me. I am on strike. I
am temporarily laid off, I do not exist until movie is finished. But I
did enjoy my candy.

Wednesday, March 6

Last night there was a full moon. But I didn't need and excuse to feel
violent, hostile, and unusually aggressive. Yesterday I snapped when
the producer arrived to ask me for the millionth time if I would move
out of my hotel because we were going past shooting schedule here and
the rooms had been previously booked. He wants me to move to some shit
hole next door. Of course I told him what he could do with his request
and he walked away mumbling something about hotel's have squatters.
Squatters? At, this point I wanted to rip my hair out, but I couldn't,
as I was wearing a wig. I shoot six days a week and rehearse on my
days off. I have done enough campaigning to win a local government
election and I do it gladly in the name of the movie. The least they
could do is stop trying to push me around like I am an extra. Then to
add insult to injury they saved my close- up till the last shot of the
day, after midnight, in the 12th hour of shooting, which is not a nice
thing to do to a lady. I should have refused. My make was cracking
off, the lace to my brunette wig had been glued on one time too many
and it wouldn't lie flat against my head, and I could barely keep my
eyes open. Darius kept looking at me and shaking his head and suddenly
I burst into tears. I was going to walk off the set, but I took a deep
breath and agreed to go back in to the trailer and make on last
attempt. We ended up cutting off all the downy blond hair that grows
around my hairline and now I look like Bette Davis in The Private
Lives of Elizabeth and Essex. We finished the shot and on my way out I
was informed that we may be filming the balcony of the Casa Rosada
this weekend. Meaning two days from now. Meaning I am not prepared.
Meaning, Oh shit!!

Thursday, March 7

Yesterday I was finally and formally invited for a drink to the home
of Mrs. Fortabat, on of the wealthiest women in the B.A. and certainly
on of the most clever. She is very good friends with the president ,
and I am told she is considered a saint by the labor union leaders
because she has been so generous to them. What really interested me
was her art collection, which my dealer in New York insisted was
amazing. For weeks she hesitated to meet with me, either because her
deceased husband was a devout anti Peronist or because she thought I
would bring a torrent of photographers with me. Mrs. Fortabat's
building was surrounded by what seemed to be a secret service police,
who whisked me out of my car, then silently led me into the building
and up a private elevator, which opened directly in to her apartment.
It was all very Mission: Impossible. This beautifully coifed,
elegantly dressed woman greeted me, kissed my cheek, and said that she
hoped I hadn't come to talk about Eva Peron. I said I was there to see
her art and she seemed relieved. She led me through rooms decorated in
Louis XVI style until we reached the main sitting room which had the
most breathtaking view of the city and the El Tigre River that I had
seen. We sat down to talk there and I tried in vain not to be
distracted by the Legers and Miros around us. We talked about Frida
Kahlo, whom we both adore, and she invited me to her apartment in New
York City, where the Kahlos are. She insisted I called her Amalita and
went on to talk about her late husband, who she was sure he died of an
anti-Peronism. She, on the other hand, quite liked Evita and spoke
about her in a very loving way. Amalita told me that she once had a
very good masseuse, the best in B.A., and one day Juan Duarte, Eva's
brother, came to visit and inquire about the masseuse and see if he
could borrow her services. It was not for Eva, who was very ill at the
time, but for his mother, Dona Juana. Apparently the mother and the
masseuse become friends and Dona Juana confided a great many things
about Evita, which the masseuse told Amalita. When Evita was very ill
and confined to her bed, Peron forbade any visitors except for
immediate family. He himself rarely visited, because he could not
stand the smell of her room, her body, her cancer. He would merely
open the door and wave and she would invite him in and he would say he
had things to do and would come back later, and one night Eva woke up
from a bad dream and got out go bed to go to the Peron's room because
she was scared. They had slept in separate bedrooms for several years.
When she woke him up, he smelled her and shouted, " Get out of my
room, get that thing out of here!" I almost cried when I heard this
story, but Amalita went on. Peron knew how instrumental Evita was to
his popularity and it was he who decided , before she died, to have
her body put on display after her death. He wanted her to look good,
but she was losing weight and starting to deteriorate, so he talked to
a mortician and they decided they would have to start injecting her
with chemical concoctions which would preserve her organs and flesh.
God only knows what effect the injections must have had. To make
matters worse, she was not allowed any painkillers, because they would
have interfered with the preservation process, so I can only imagine
how she must have suffered. I was disgusted by this whole story and
Peron's cruelty and it was hard for me to enjoy the rest of the
evening. Amalita told me that my skin was like Evita's. She said that
Evita did not have a good body or nice legs, but she had a beautiful
face and she knew how to dress. Then she said that Evita had the
sweetness of revenge running through her veins.

Sunday, March 10

Last night was like a dream and yet it happened so easily and
effortlessly I have to keep pinching myself to make sure that I
haven't imagined it. Last night I walked out on the balcony of the
Casa Rosada in front of thousands of people and sang " Don't Cry For
Me Argentina." In the exact place she had stood so many times before,
I raised my arms and looked into the hungry eyes of humanity, and at
that moment I felt her enter my body like a heat missile, starting
with my feet, traveling up my spine, and flying out my fingertips,
into the air, out to the people, and back up to heaven. Afterwards I
could not speak and I was so happy. But I felt a great sadness too.
Because she is haunting me. She is pushing me to feel things. When you
want something bad enough the whole earth conspires to help you get
it.

Tuesday, March 12

I dreamed one of my teeth felt loose and I wiggled it and it fell out
of my mouth. Then I felt the rest of my teeth and they all started to
break off and fall out of my mouth. I went to the doctor's and asked
what was wrong with me and h e said it was one of the first signs of
cancer.

Friday, March 15

Today is my last day of shooting in B.A.. My room is a mountain of
suitcases and the unloved remains of things I have acquired but do not
want to take. I thought this day would never come and now she's here
and I'm a bit sad, but not too sad, for I feel like I have
accomplished everything I set out to do and then some. Yes, I have
suffered, but not in vain. I do wonder why the Argentineans made such
a fuss. No one protested when I was on the balcony. No anger. No
vicious journalism. I think they just wanted to see how far I was
willing to crawl and beg for something. They obviously don't know me.
I do feel like I have earned a modicum of respect here. Like anything
important in life it must be earned.

NEW YORK

Tuesday, March 19

When we got off the plane in America I kissed the ground. God, I felt
good to be home. I spent three uninterrupted days of bliss in Miami
and here is why I feel guilty: I rode my bike and took my boat out to
see the dolphins and buried my nose in my gardenia bushes and watched
the Tyson fight and stayed in my nightgown all day and had acupuncture
and read Shakespeare's love sonnets and ate ice cream. All very
un-Evita- like behavior, but I needed to remind myself that I had a
life before her. I've stopped off in New York to prepare myself for
the cold and gray of Budapest and get in a few dance rehearsals and of
course shop. I hope it was not a mistake to come here. I don't want to
get too far away from the movie. Mind, body, and spirit must stay
focused. In any case, Evita did like to go shopping, so I'm not
straying too far. Am I?

BUDAPEST

Monday, March 25

I cannot wear any of my new frocks in Budapest. There's still a chill
in the air and not a hint of spring. I've been sneezing all morning
and tomorrow we're shooting a scene outside and all I'll be wearing is
a simple summer dress. Last week- heat, exhaustion, and sunburn. This
week- pneumonia. The one good thing about the cold is that your hair
doesn't grow as fast, so I won't have to shave my legs often. What can
I say about Budapest? The architecture is beautiful, and if you squint
your eyes it feels like Paris. My hotel, on the other hand, is a big,
modern glass monstrosity run by Germans. I reserve judgment until
further exploration. Oh dear, that's not like me.

Tuesday, March 26

I am in a jet-lag stupor. So tired my skin hurts. I couldn't sleep
last night and even the freezing temperature on the set did not wake
me up. I had to march through mud puddles with steelworkers and my
feet were wet and frozen. It's hard to look happy and lively when your
teeth are chattering. I pray to God it warms up or I'm in for some
real suffering. I wonder if anyone paid any attention to the fact that
it's wintertime and almost everything we're shooting is an exterior.
But these decisions are made by people who get to walk around in warm
parkas all day long. I think I'm going to protest. I'm not getting
paid enough to suffer hypothermia. The extras are a morbid bunch. No
sense of humor. I don't blame them- it's so damn bleak here.

Thursday, March 28

Between the layers of silk thermals and the hot chocolate I was
guzzling to stay warm I could hardly fit into my costume last night.
After midnight the wind kicked up and it was so bitterly cold that the
only thing that got me through the evening was my desert visualization
and chanting my mantra. Fortunately, we were shooting the scene were I
faint and I'm carried down a hundred steps by my brother. I did not
have to pretend to unconscious. The cold did it for me. The good news
is that I finished all my work last night and I have this evening off.
It's Antonio's turn to freeze. The sun was out in the afternoon and we
walked to an old coffeehouse built at the turn of the century and
gorged ourselves on more hot chocolate and wonderful cakes and
marzipan. Then we walked to the river and looked at all the beautiful
House of Parliament. When people recognized me they kept their
distance and even the fans following me were polite and shy. It was
all very pleasant and civilized. I don't feel like a trapped prisoner.

Sunday, March 31

Today is Palm Sunday. We went to a beautiful Gothic church called
Matthias or Holy Mother Church. Seven hundred years old. Gorgeous. We
went after a service and there was a sort of choral practice going on.
Four singers singing in French with and organist and a cello player. I
could have spent hours there smelling the incense and staring at the
painted ceilings. The music filled up the entire church, which was
decorated with beautiful mosaic tiles and Baroque trimmings. I lit a
candle and prayed for the movie to go well and the sun to come out and
the bishop to stop torturing me. We are trying to get permission to
shoot a scene in a basilica, but it seems a certain holier -than -
thou bishop won't allow it because he doesn't approve of my behavior.
I wonder if he would let 75 percent of his parishioners in his church
if he knew what they did in their spare time. Now it's news all over
the world that I'm causing problems in Budapest. The bishop will not
me in his church. I am a bad girl. A fallen woman. A sinner. If I gave
him an autographed picture he would probably change his mind. The
bishop can kiss my ass. I'm not groveling for one more person in the
name of this movie. There is no more skin left on my knees. I will
never apologize for my behavior. Neither would Evita.

Wednesday, April 3

Woke up sideways on the bed, tangled in my sheets and slightly
nauseated from too much dreaming. Too many trips to the ugly side of
my unconscious. I went to sleep in a bad mood. I'm not sure what I was
most upset about. the fact that I never know what we're shooting from
day to day because of the weather? The fact that I was on my feet for
14 hours with and irritated sciatic nerve? Pain like lighting bolts
shoot down my leg. Today I spend the day in the hospital bed being
told that I am dying. This will not be a stretch.

Thursday, April 4

Yesterday was a real cryfest. I spent the entire day horizontal. First
in the operating room, where I felt like I was doing an ER episode,
and then in the hospital bed being told that I have cancer. I kept
thinking about how my mother must have felt with my father when he
told her that she was dying. And how she stayed so cheerful and never
gave in to her sadness even at the end. This brought on the flood of
tears throughout the entire day. But Jonathan cried more than I did.
He had gotten some upsetting news and he was a mess before we started
shooting. He cried before, during, and after takes. Sometimes he would
sneak off to the side and face the wall and sob. His whole body was
racked with tears. Sometimes I cried in reaction to his obvious grief.
I thought maybe something had happened to his wife or his children,
but he only looked at me when the camera was rolling, so I couldn't
ask. Clearly he didn't want to talk about it.

Saturday, April 6

Yesterday was Good Friday and I thought about my mother again, how she
would cover up all the religious pictures and statues in the house
with purple cloth. Until Christ rose from the dead. I thought it a
bizarre ritual but quite beautiful. Easter has always been my favorite
holiday. New hats, new buds on trees, Easter-egg hunts, and chocolate.
I'm trying to get into the spirit here, but it's difficult. If only
the sun would shine or a bird would sing. The movie is going along
smoothly and we're getting things done, but I feel as if time has
stopped. Like we're all in a holding pattern. What is not in a holding
pattern is the baby growing inside of me. I have known for three
weeks, and while I am ecstatic, I was so afraid of how it might affect
the movie (my other baby) that I couldn't even write about it. But I
must face the facts and tell Production because my costumes are
starting not to fit and I'm becoming very self-conscious about my
body. Not to mention the fact that there are at least six more weeks
of shooting and some big dance scenes to be filmed in England at the
end of the schedule. Alan already knows. I told him after I got to New
York and went to the doctor's. I really never suspected for a moment
that I might be pregnant. I often missed periods when I'm stressed,
traveling, working too hard, or not sleeping. I was stunned when I saw
on the ultrasound a tiny living creature spinning around in my womb.
Tap-dancing, I think. Waving its tiny arms around and trying to suck
its thumb. I could have sworn I heard it laughing. The pure and joyful
laughter of a child. As if to say, " Ha-ha, I fooled you!" I heard its
heartbeat and immediately fell in love. And then I became
panic-stricken. I decided to tell only a handful of people: my
assistant, my trainer, and Carlos, of course. I live in fear of the
press's finding out. Not because I'm ashamed of anything, but they
will send their camera crews to torture me and I'm desperate to finish
filming in peace, as I am sure everyone else is. I haven't ever told
my best friends or my sisters. I had hoped to keep it secret until the
end of shooting , but I don't think this will be possible. OF course,
they could always get a body double for all my dance sequences ( like
Jennifer Beals in Flashdance), but the idea of someone else doing my
dancing in is repulsive. I'm three months pregnant and I've got about
four more weeks of barely hiding it. Oh please, dear God, let them
change the schedule and let me get through this and still be great and
not wreak havoc on the movie. I promise I'll be good.

Easter Sunday

There is a God. The sun is shining, and looking out my window I swear
I see a patch of green. Today I will try not to worry about anything.
I will try not to be too homesick. Too fatalistic. I will not read any
Dorothy Parker. All my friends have sent me care packages, and I
intend to gorge myself on foie gras, caviar, and Cadbury's Creme Eggs,
though I'd better be careful or that bun in my oven will turn in to a
loaf.

Wednesday, April 10

The last few days have been extremely worrisome. We've been shooting
what will look like a documentary footage from the famous Rainbow
tour, when Evita went to Europe as a goodwill ambassador. She was very
well received in Spain and Italy, but when she got to France thing
started to go wrong. There were anti-Peronist demonstrations, and she
had eggs and bricks thrown at her car and crowds chanted, " Whore, go
home!" I didn't have to try very hard to imagine how she felt, and
perhaps all this negative behavior toward my character is getting to
me. Too close to home. Being pregnant should be cheering me up, it's
not. I keep having this nagging feeling that I'm going to destroy what
we've all work so hard to accomplish. More and more people are
starting to find out because Alan has to explain to the producers and
the art department why he wants such drastic changes in the shooting
schedule. Everyone's scrambling and being very sweet and supportive,
but I feel guilty that I'm inconveniencing people. I feel like a 14
year old who is trying to hide the fact that she is pregnant from her
parents. It makes me feel like I have something to be ashamed of. The
people that do know congratulate me when they find out, but this
embarrasses me. Why? Haven't this out yet. I feel like we are all in a
race against time. How will I do all those glamorous photo shoots to
promote the film when I can't even fit in to my costumes? What will
the press do when they find out? I keep looking into the mirror
expecting to see that glow of pregnancy and all I see are dark circles
under my eyes and acne. I should be happy end excited, but instead I
am scared. Some days I even feel trapped, but they say this normal,
I'm sure all of this would be easier if Carlos was here. Thank God he
arrives next week. This is not exactly how I envisioned starting a
family.

Sunday, April 14

Woke up with a stomachache. Did not sleep nearly enough. We worked
late last night in extremely cold weather. Marching up and down Hero's
Square, leading the workers, who were carrying torches and singing for
Person's freedom, for rights for working class , for all Argentina. I
came home and crawled under every blanket I could find, but I just
couldn't seem to get warm enough. I head that the extras revolted
after I left because of the cold and started burning banners and signs
with the kerosene torches. I don't blame them. I would have done the
same thing.

Monday, April 15

Last night was hell. On my feet for 14 hours, mostly dancing. We
filmed in a huge museum that had a beautiful ballroom. Of course the
building was ancient and there was no heat. Lighting was minimal , so
we stayed cold. Antonio still doesn't know I'm pregnant and he keeps
asking me what I think of different baby names that he and Melanie
like. I just try to hold my stomach in. Who am I trying to kid? At the
end of the dance I fall to the ground clutching my cancer-riddled
womb, crying and cursing God for making me so vulnerable. Over and
over again for what seemed like a million takes. I am covered in
bruises from falling, and the floor was icy cold, but it was worth it.
I know it's going to be a very moving scene. I was bitching and
moaning all night, but secretly I was proud of myself and excited. I
felt for a moment the potential of this film.

Wednesday, April 17

Well, the world knows and I feel like my insides had been ripped open.
The front page of the Post, CNN, even Hungarian radio. What's the big
deal? Don't millions of women get pregnant everyday? Most of the
reaction has been positive, but I wish everyone would just let me do
my work. Some people have suggested that I have done this for shock
value. These are comments that only a man would make. It's much too
difficult to be pregnant and bring a child into this world to do it
for the whimsical or provocative reasons. There fare also speculations
that I used the father as a stud service. Implying that I am not
capable of having a real relationship. I realize these are all
comments made by persons who cannot live with the idea that something
good has happened to me. Something special and wonderful that they
cannot spoil.

I have been avoiding all my friends' calls because I know I will be
berated for keeping it a secret for so long. They will want to know
when and where and how and what my plans are for the future are, and I
haven't got a clue. I mustn't think about these things, but I do
anyway, which only frustrates me because I haven't got any answers. In
any case, I have to resist the inclination to want to be taken care
of. I must remain independent and strong in order to finish this film.
Today I am going to call my father and tell him the rumors are true
for a change. I hope he'll be happy.

Saturday, April 20

I've just spent the last two days doing a Vanity Fair photo session by
day and the movie at night. Burning the candle at both ends, so to
speak. Not a good idea when you are almost fourth months pregnant.
When you're paranoid and neurotic every little twinge you feel is a
sign of a miscarriage. I have been able to fall asleep only on my
stomach my entire life and now that I am pregnant I am trying to learn
to sleep on my side. Still, every morning I wake up with my face down
on the mattress and I'm sure I have broken my baby's nose. I'm always
tired and cranky. Ironically, this feeling of vulnerability and
weakness is helping me in the movie. I'm sure Evita felt this way
every day of her life once she discovered she was ill.

Wednesday, April 24

Thank God we're leaving in five days. My call time has been delayed
and I'm sitting in my room with smoke coming out my ears. I just wrote
a letter of outrage to the boss with applesauce, Andy Vajna, as I am
sick of being made to feel grateful for being allowed to be in this
movie. Production screwed up and forgot to make reservations in London
near the soundstage where we'll be shooting and now either I have to
stay in a crappy hotel an hour away from work or I can rent a house
for a month. But because it is last minute it's more expensive and
production refuses to pay the extra So basically I have no place to
stay in London. I don't like to be petty about money, but in the end
it's about respect. I know comparing myself with other actors and how
they are treated gets me nowhere, but I feel like I am being taken
advantage of.

Friday, April 26

That giddy feeling is back. Two more days of shooting in Budapest! I
feel like I've survived yet another war. My second tour of duty.
Building strength as I go. But I'm afraid I've acquired a world -weary
look in my eyes that may never go away. Spring is thawing out the
universe. It's sure to be warmer in London and Andy has agreed to the
house in Holland Park. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all.

Sunday, April 28

Last night I dreamt again about my teeth falling out and I tried to
disguise my problem with the teeth I wear in the movie. I was
embarrassed and frightened that this was a sign of a more serious
health problem. Why do I keep dreaming about death? What do I have to
be worried about? Today is out last day of filming in Budapest and I
should be a very happy girl. Last night I had a celebration dinner
with Jonathan Pryce and Jimmy Nail, who plays Magaldi, the tango
singer who takes Eva to Buenos Aires for the first time. We had Thai
food and it was spicy and fragrant and I ate too much and went home
with a stomachache. There was a lively Merlot that I sampled and I was
longing for a glass of it, but I don't want to add fetal alcohol
syndrome to my list of worries. Have also been craving martinis. Maybe
it's the olives, she said wistfully.

LONDON

Tuesday, April 30

I'm sitting in the living room of my cozy new home in Holland Park.
There's a bust of Mozart as a boy on my desk and a fire roaring in the
fireplace. The front window is shaded by and ancient magnolia tree and
there's a garden in the back which I hope to be spending some time in
when it gets a bit warmer. Doesn't it sound cozy? It wasn't when we
got here, but Caresse and I have beaten it in to submission. When we
arrived there was no heat, no towels, no television, and no fax. Worst
of all, only one phone line. How could a girl survive such primitive
circumstances? We have since rectified most of the unpleasantness.
This of course required several threatening phone calls to owner and
Realtor. A friend of mine has donated some Pratsi linens and finally I
can sleep with out scratching myself to death from harsh hotel
detergents. The woman who owns the house is an interior decorator who
believes that a well-furnished room has no empty space. We have
cleared out some of the over stuffed couches and chairs, but we're not
going to touch the artwork, which covers every inch of wall space and
adds up to exactly nothing. it's frightening to think that her husband
is the chairman of Christie's International. Still, I can't complain.
It's not a hotel and I can make my own damn cup of coffee. I was
bewildered as to why the owners would rent their house out for a month
and move into another in the city, until the jackhammers started at
7:30 A.M. Maybe that's why they wanted to rent out the house. The
house next door is being renovated and we will be awakened every
morning by a chorus of pounding, scrapping, and drilling for the next
four weeks. I considered going outside this morning and giving the
workers a piece of my mind, but I didn't think I'd be too convincing
in my flannel pj's and zit medicine. Why is God punishing me again?
Had a great dance rehearsal for the big dance number we're shooting on
Friday. Tomorrow we show it to Alan. I hope he likes it.

Friday, May 3

Woke up this morning feeling like a truck had run over me. My insomnia
has resurfaced the last few nights and I'm trying to figure out why.
Is it because a certain disgusting basketball player I made the
mistake of going out with deciding to publish an autobiography and
devoted a whole chapter to what it was like to have sex with me?
Complete with made-up dialogue that even a bad porno writer would not
take credit for. It's so silly I 'm sure no on will take it seriously,
but I don't feel like reading the headlines, and of course I feel
exploited once again by someone I trusted and let in to my life. Maybe
it's the not-humanly-possible shooting schedule or because I miss my
dog. We had to send her back to the States because of the stupid
quarantine laws in this country. Today is the first day of shooting at
Shepperton and it's all dancing and I'm worried about my tummy showing
and I'm worried I'll be too tired to get through the day and I'm
worried that the corner of Xanax I've nibbled on the last two nights
is going to deform my baby for sure. Dear God, please let this day go
smoothly and please let me sleep tonight. And please let my baby be
O.K.

Monday, May 6

I survived the weekend, but just barely. We filmed a scene where
Magaldi brings me to the big city and we go to a cantina and I end up
in the arms of several men, dancing and whooping it up. Enjoying my
new freedom and showing it off. I was winded after every take and had
to lie down on a couch every 10 minutes so I could recover from dizzy
spells. I was worried that I was shaking the baby around too much and
that I would injure it in some way. The second day I started getting a
cramping feeling and I got worried , so a very comforting Indian
doctor came to the set to examine me. When I could hear my baby's
heart beating, I was instantly reassured. I spent the rest of the
weekend feeling guilty about working too hard and apologizing to my
unborn child for any anxiety and uncomfortable bouncing around I was
causing it. Today I am having amniocentesis and I've never been more
scared in my life.

Tuesday, May 7

I am writing today as therapy. As damage control. To keep from crying
out or destroying something. Women who are educated, woman you call
themselves feminists, women who are gay and have the nerve to attack
me in the press and say that my choice to have a baby and not be
married is contributing to the destruction of the nuclear family.
Camille Paglie, a notoriously gay feminist and journalist, went as far
as to imply that I had a child out of wedlock because I'm unable to
bond with a man and that the public is justified in being outraged
because people are concerned for the welfare of the child. They are
afraid that I will raise my baby (a la Joan Crawford in Mommie
Dearest) all alone in a dark mansion. There are discussions and
arguments in editorial columns all over the US concerning my status as
a single mother and whether I am a good role model for young girls.
Does anyone complain that neither Susan Sarandon nor Goldie Hawn is
married to the father of her children? Who said a word when Woody
Allen and Mia Farrow had a child and continued to live across the park
from each other? Why are these things never an issue with men? I
believe that most people would be more comfortable if I got married
and the marriage failed. I believe that divorce is more socially
acceptable than single motherhood or being honesty about your future.
What a hypocritical society we live in! But the surprising thing is
how sexist women are. On a good note, I survived my amniocentesis,
though I won't pretend it was painless. The doctor was very comforting
and we watched the baby move around for a while before invading its
space with a seven inch needle. For the first time I felt fiercely
protective, like a mother with her cub. He put the needle in with out
numbing the area, which really hurt. Then I proceeded to dig a hole in
Caresse's hand with my nails while the doctor withdrew the amniotic
fluid. Instead of bumping into the needle, which was what I feared,
the baby instinctively moved away from it and raised its hand into
little fists to hide its face. For some reason this gave me relief.
When the procedure was finished we tried to determine the baby's sex
by moving the camera between its legs, but it showed its complete and
utter annoyance with the intrusion by turning away from the camera and
refusing to give up any information. A girl/boy after my own heart.

Thursday, May 9

I am so tired. I've been getting up all week at six a.m., which isn't
such a bad idea considering that an hour later the jackhammers next
door will start up and send me running out of my bed anyway. It's also
good because it allows for 45 minutes on my Lifecycle or Stairmaster
before going off to work in the hope that I will avoid water retention
and weight gain and that my costumes will continue to fit. Production
seems more chaotic than ever- a last minute scramble to fit everything
in. There never seems to be enough time to finish our work each day
without going in to serious overtime. In addition to this, journalists
from a number of publications have been frequenting the set like birds
of prey, writing on their little pads and looking away nervously when
they make eye contact with me. It causes me to feel so paranoid. They
intrude into our private world; they don't understand that our silly
behavior or emotional outbursts are a result of exhaustion. It's
tedious to constantly edit everything that comes out of your mouth for
fear that you will be misquoted or , worse, misunderstood. This one
writer in particular (from Vogue magazine) has me feeling really
nervous. We had a long interview on my day off while I was recovering
from the giant needle invasion. I thought that things went well, 'we
had a long philosophical talk about everything from motherhood to
being Catholic fearing death. Not exactly exchanging pleasantries. She
spent the next day on the set, asking several members of the cast and
crew if I they thought I was intelligent. Now, I know I didn't sound
like an idiot the day before, but I guess she was so surprised she had
to go around asking people to verify her findings. Needless, to say,
she did not endear herself to me. I'm trying to think when I turned
against her. I was probably when she asked me what method of birth
control that I used after I told her that I didn't discover that I was
pregnant until the eleventh week. The astonished look on her face when
I told her it was none of her business leads me to believe that she
will not be kind.

Saturday, May 11

Two weeks left of filming and the discomforts of being pregnant and
the future demands of motherhood are becoming my sole preoccupation. I
know I have every right to be distracted by these things, yet I feel
guilty. I have some very important scenes coming up. In fact, the most
important scenes in the film have sadistically been saved for the last
two weeks of filming. I need to hunker down with my nose to the
grindstone. Not give in to thinking about where I'm going to have my
baby and where I want it to go to school and what the results of the
amnio test are going to be. You know, trivial things. People ask me if
I've gone shopping for baby clothes or thought about names and I
blankly stare at them, thinking, Oh yeah, mothers do these sorts, but
I feel I cannot give in to this sort of gooey sentimentality until I
have breathed Evita's last breath. I mustn't be unfaithful to her. I
even hid the numerous books I have on being pregnant and having
children from friends and coworkers lest they think I've turned into
some weepy domesticated female.

Sunday, May 12

Today is Mother's Day and as usual I'm depressed. I always get sad
around this time of year for the obvious reasons . I long to know the
sensation of having a mother to hug or to call up and say
conspiratorial things to about how difficult men are, or to simply
share my joy with. This year I am even sadder because I'm sure she
would be the happiest to know that I am having a baby. But God works
in mysterious ways, for I received several gifts on the set of the
movie today. I was giving an angry speech to a group of union leaders
in my office when I felt the baby kick for the first time. I had to
resist ht temptation to hold my belly and laugh out loud. It had to
remain my delicious and lovely secret. There I was in a room full of
suits and cigars and mustaches, pounding my fists on the desk and
feeling like some kind of deranged monster, and my beautiful baby
kicked me in the side as if to say, " Happy Mother's Day!" Then later
on, we were shooting a scene in my office, where I meet with poor
people and promise things like houses and bicycles and jobs, and three
of the sweetest little girls who were extras, decided to attach
themselves to me. They were all about eight or nine years old and they
were so affectionate and the would anxiously grab my hands and smother
me kisses in-between takes. on the longer breaks they told me about
their cats and dogs and horrible brothers and what they wanted to be
when they grew up. They saddest and most forlorn of the group (her
name was Levi) said she wanted to be like me. Figures. By the end of
the day I was madly in love with her and when we had to say good-bye
she said she wished I were her mother and my eyes welled up with
tears. I'm such a sap. In two weeks I'll be back on a plane flying
away from all this lunacy with the only thing that really matter
growing inside of me Carlos has been very sweet and supportive on the
phone. Today he sent me flowers.

Tuesday, May 14

Today I died a thousands deaths. Take after painful take. I was a
wreck, even off-camera. My movie family was there, with Jonathan
holding my hand, and the entire room was a snot factory all day. The
work we are doing now is so hard and so intense and I am so profoundly
tired. The most complicated things I can think about outside of the
movie are along the lines of whether I should remove my bully button
ring now or later and what nationality I want the nanny to be. God , I
feel so old and worn out. If someone came into the room right now he
would see a sagging, gray haired hunchbacked lady and say, "Jeez, I
didn't know women could bear children in their 80s!" Yep, that's me.
Old before my time,

Thursday, May 16

I've developed a strange nervous-stomach condition that causes so much
pain that sometimes I have to lie down in the middle of a scene.
Everyone chalks it up to my being pregnant, but I know the real reason
is that I don't get enough sleep and my nerves are shot. Throw in the
anxiety of waiting for the results of the amnio test and you have the
makings of what feels like an ulcer. I alternate between swilling
Mylanta and sipping ginger tea. This movie is destroying my body. This
baby is , well, not destroying my body but altering it beyond
recognition. Even my complaining is boring me.

Saturday, May 18

I've been waiting in my dressing room for hours to do my close ups of
the famous balcony scene. In a moment of panic I called my voice
teacher, Joan Leder, for an emergency voice lesson in case I had to
sing live. The lesson went great even though we did it on the
speakerphone with her two year old screaming in the background. I've
dreaded shooting this scene in the way I dreaded singing the song in
the studio. It's like throwing a New Year's Eve party. You know
everyone's coming to have the time of their life and you're just so
sure you're going to disappoint them. I can't take the pressure. The
fact that they are making me wait is torture. I'm working. It reminds
me of when I was a little girl and I'd get into some sort of silly
trouble and my stepmother would five a me a wooden spoon and tell me
to go upstairs and wait in her room with the door closed and she would
come up and spank me later.

Later:

Well, I did it and it wasn't so bad after all. The twenty extras who
were hired for me to react to were poor substitutes for the
enthusiastic Argentineans, so I asked Alan if we could fill the room
with people working on the movie. In a matter of minutes all my
favorite crew members, secretaries, runners, security guards, and
miscellaneous children were standing below my balcony beaming up at
me. I felt so much love and support in the room that I forgot we
weren't in Argentina. For the first time I thought, We truly are a
family, and I realized I had grown to love each and every member of
out traveling circus. Even the ones who got on my nerves. My faith in
the humanity has been restored.

Monday, May 20

I slept a luxurious seven hours last night. I still feel like my
eyeballs had been dub out of their sockets, but at least I have the
day off. Last night my fans caused a bit of a riot in front of my
house. There's an old stone wall that surrounds the front yard and it
has a ledge halfway up that is in a serious state of decay. My fans
have gotten in to the habit of hoisting themselves up on to this ledge
to peer inside the grounds. Last night when I returned from work they
all jumped on the ledge at once and pulled the whole damn thing over
in one resounding thud. I made it safely into the house and let my
security guards deal with the problem, but all I could think about was
how irate the owners would be and how they probably threaten me with a
lawsuit, so I better call the police and fill out a police report.
then they started arguing about whose fault it was. One of the girls
called another girl a nigger and then two other girls jumped the girl
who said the n-word and pretty soon there was an all-girl rumbling in
the rubble. Eventually the police showed up. I thought that these kind
of things happened only at rock concerts and soccer matches. Why don't
they leave me alone? Today I get the results of the amnio. I have
eaten all the skin off the inside of my mouth.

Later:

The results of the amnio are back and the baby is fine and a female
and I am deliriously happy! Thank you, God.

Thursday, May 23

It's getting harder and harder to write in my journal. Every day is so
full and there's never enough time. There are no easy days at work. I
realize now that this whole movie was scheduled around the
availability of locations and the construction of movie sets. This is,
in fact, how most movies are scheduled, but is' completely unfair to
the actors. The intensity of the scenes we've been shooting and the
amount of emotional work and concentration that is needed to get
through the day are so mentally and physically exhausting that I'm
sure I will need to be institutionalized when it's over. I understand
now why most actors are alcoholics, drug addicts, or Scientologists.
Yesterday was my movie family's last day of work. We all cried when we
said good-bye.

Friday, May 24

Not knowing what out last day of shooting is going to be makes me feel
so incredibly helpless and anxiety-ridden. Lady Hinlip, our very
aristocratic landlady, is throwing us out of her house in five days.
Will I spend my last days shooting as a homeless vagrant? At this
point I am positively allergic to hotels and there is a lovely park
with some nice benches for sleeping right down the street.

Sunday, May 26

Work is so UGH! We're crawling through the last days. The crew
alternates between complete exhaustion and absolute giddiness. Alan
walks around looking shattered. Today he put his head on my shoulder
for several minutes and I petted him like he was my little puppy.
Sometimes he can be so damn sweet. Jonathan, Jimmy, and Antonio are
all wrapped now, so it's just me and the boys. I've become very
accident-prone lately. I slipped and fell rushing to the elevator in a
scene we were shooting, then, later on, I slammed my fingers in the
elevator door. Tonight my arms are covered with bruises from being
manhandled by the military police. Dare I say it? I am tired of being
her.

Monday, May 27

Today is a bank holiday in London. The streets are dead and the skies
are gray. My supposed fans are out of school and making all sorts of
irritating noises in front of my house. Normally a day like this would
put me in the foulest of moods. But today I am grinning like the
Cheshire cat. Tomorrow is out last day of shooting! HOORAY! Granted it
will be a long day, probably 18 hours, but who cares? Today I've got
enough adrenaline pumping through my veins to run a marathon. I'm
powering through this house stuffing suitcases and throwing out
unwanted excess like there' s no tomorrow. Every once in awhile I
catch myself laughing out loud. For no particular reason. I need a
whole new suitcase for all the baby clothes that I've acquired. My
daughter is going to be the best-dressed baby in the world. Tonight
I'm going out to a farewell sinner with several members of cast and
crew. We're going to exchange gifts and bitch and moan for the last
time. Ain't life grand?

NEW YORK

Wednesday, May 29

I'm home finally. I tried in vain to write a closing journal entry one
my last day of shooting , but we did not finish until four in the
morning and then the long good-byes and the long drive home and the
last-minute packing, and before I knew it, it as time to leave for the
airport. I thought the end would be so much more emotional. I
envisioned myself breaking down completely when Alan yelled, "That's a
wrap!" I'd rehearsed a whole good-bye speech that I would deliver
while I sobbed and shivered in the cold, damp London night, but all at
once it was over and all I felt was numbness. Frankly my eyes were
burning form the special-effects smoke, and my legs felt like lead
weights from standing on them for 16 hours. So what if my fingers were
frozen and my belly was straining against my suit and I felt like
puking. I wanted it all to end in a big crescendo. I wanted to hear
trumpets and angels heralding my bravery. I wanted cast and crew
members to flock to me imploring me to stay in touch. I wanted to
throw myself on the ground and drown in my tears. But I was just too
damn tired. And so was everyone else. Alan and I gave each other a
long bear hug, but I know I'll be seeing plenty more of him when we
mix the record and so all final dubbing. For me, work on the film
isn't truly over, but the endless traveling and long hours of filming
are. It ended just in the nick of time. I couldn't have taken one more
minute of it. I can't believe I wont have to spend three hours each
day doing my hair in elaborate braids and 40s rolls. I can't believe I
won't have to paint my nails read and wear false teeth. I can' t
believe I don't have to get up at six A.M. tomorrow or yell at
Gallagher , the second assistant director, about my call time in my
pretend angry voice. And Darius, whom I've grown to love as a brother.
Who called me Moushka and Mouse Head and Lou-Lou and made faces at me
until I laughed every morning. I shall miss him terribly. I'm in a
state of shock. I think it will take me months to recover and a very
long time before I'm able to digest all that has happened to me these
past five months. Everything is different now. My life will never be
the same. Have I solved the riddle of Evita? Have I answered all the
burning questions? Why was her country so passionately divided, for
her and against her? Why did she evoke such a strong response in
people, then and now? Was she good or bad? Innocent or manipulative?
I'm still not sure, but I know one thing- I have grown to love her.
She was a human being with hopes and dreams and human frailties. I
hope and pray that people will see that when they watch the movie.
I've tried my best. There's nothing more that I can do. It's time to
move on to the next chapter in my life. Evita has left the building

Vanity Fair (Nov. 1996)

lotsofluv

m m
mm mm
m m m R U L E Z !
m m
m m

[Danny Wept Im A 500lb Gorilla]

>Subject: The Evita Diaries [ Vanity Fair - Nov 1996 ]
>

>From: LoveMrs...@madonnaweb.com
>

In Message-ID: <3dcffd33...@NEWS.CIS.DFN.DE>
LoveMrs...@yahoo.com (Madonna Rulez) wrote:

> you don't have a clue when it comes to tracking people. Fortunately I do; so
> expect some problems soon from your ISP ;-)
>

Really? ;)

[giggle]

---

As to cleaning up this group believe me I have been working on that...I have
the perfect solution but it will take a little time to get sorted out but I
will e-mail people on my list here as things progress, :-)

~Laura Fairhead [12-18-02]