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[Betty Neyhart]

If you stop at the sign on Sunset Boulevard that says MOVIE STAR MAPS and fork over five dollars, the old man will sell you a Guide to Starland Estates and tell you that Barbra Streisand lives in Estate # 118. But, he will add honorably, "You can't see anything."

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I pass muster. Inside, I wait briefly in a large white study containing a white piano and a white poodle. The white ashtrays have white match boxes, and the white pencils on the white desk have white erasers. In walks the woman who has been compared, at various points in her career, to an ancient oracle, a Babylonian queen, a vampire, a toadstool, a truffle, a martin, a hamster, an anteater, the Aswan Dam and a plate of hot pastrami. At five feet five, with squiggly blond hair, scant makeup, and what her former lover Jon Peters describes as "a foxy little body with a great ass," she bears no obvious resemblance to any of these items. She wears a work shirt and Jeans and looks at least 10 years younger than her age, which is 41.

"Hi, I'm Barbra," she says helpfully. "I've got to listen to these tapes by noon today and thought, well, maybe you wouldn't mind listening with me." She is spending the week smoothing out the pop single versions of three songs from her movie Yentl. The original sound track uses only instruments common in Eastern Europe in 1904, when the movie takes place: violins, cellos, wooden flutes, panpipes, zithers. To alchemize the music into potential Top Forty gold, some of the songs have been reorchestrated with electric pianos, electric basses, drums and synthesizers. Streisand goes to the Lion Share recording studio every day and sits at an enormous console with two dozen levers, one for each instrument. She raises the volume of the violins a little on this phrase, softens the brass on that one. ("Barbra has the most incredible hearing in the world," says record producer Phil Ramone, who is master-minding the singles.)

Streisand pops a cassette labeled "The Way He Makes Me Feel" into a slot in the wall. Suddenly the white room is filled with a sound that seems to come straight from the sky, not from the Lion Share studio. It rises, falls, bends the tempo to the lyrics like audible taffy. Meanwhile, the real Streisand paces up and down with her hands in her pockets, a small figure set against the super- human backdrop of her.

The story is a love triangle. Yentl falls in love with her yeshiva study partner, played by Mandy Patinkin, who won a Tony for his portrayal of Che Guevara in Evita. He in turn loves Hadass, a girl well schooled in the arts of service and self-abnegation, played by Amy Irving, star of The Competition and Honeysuckle Rose. Hadass's family forbids her to marry Avigdor, so, looking for a way to remain close to her, he persuades his buddy Yentl to marry her in his stead. This Yentl does, though she manages to avoid sexual contact with her new wife in order to preserve the secret of her gender.

Streisand spends most of the movie covered from head to toe in a boy's black suit, her hair caught up under a short brown wig, her eyes hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, her eyebrows untweezed, her breasts compressed to preadolescent flatness by a special bra, and her celebrated nails lopped to the quick. "I didn't need to be beautiful here," she says. "So I gave the kind of attention I've always wanted for myself to Amy, who's every man's dream of a girl. So many times male directors just want you to get on with it, you know, enough powdering of the nose." Says Irving, "Barbra was always adjusting the lighting or the camera angle to make me look perfect. She'd fix my hair ribbons, brush an eyelash off my cheek, paint my lips to match the color of the fruit on the table. I was like her little doll that she could dress up. For the scenes where I had to laugh, she'd stand behind the camera pulling the strings of an imaginary Hadass doll, making it burp and cry until I'd completely crack up."

Neither Irving nor Patinkin had any difficulty relating to Streisand as a male. Says Patinkin, "She was a guy. Period. I never thought of her as a girl." Says Irving, "I'd hold her hand when she was directing and say, 'You're the cutest guy on the set.' I felt that way even in the scene where I kiss her. I was pretty excited, I mean, I'm the first female to have a screen kiss with Barbra Streisand! She refused to rehearse, but after the first take she said, 'It's not so bad, it's like kissing an arm.' I was a little insulted, because I believed so much that she was a boy that I'd sort of fallen in love with her."

Now, sitting in the white study whose noncolor scheme was planned to be "distraction-free, just like Yentl's costume," Streisand tells me that while everyone around her was treating her like a man, she felt more and more like a woman. "As a director, which is considered a male role, I had enormous power. But the stronger I felt, the softer I would speak. People would say, 'God, can't you talk any louder?' But I just couldn't." Barbra Streisand's interest in exploring different sex roles is not new. As a small child, she used to enjoy smearing her mother's lip-stick all over her face. One day, she decided to try her grandfather's razor instead and was rushed to the hospital after she nearly cut off her lip. In Yentl, the face that was preserved in that Brooklyn emergency room blends in well with the androgynous features of the other yeshiva students. "Talmud students really do look quite feminine," she explains. "They have light pale skin because they are never out in the sunshine, and they sit on their behinds all day so they get soft feminine asses. I cast boys with big lips and pretty eyes. I also used some girls as boys, did you notice that? Some of them had kind of masculine faces, maybe a little peach fuzz on the upper lip, and they looked good in boys' clothing. I didn't want anybody to be 100 percent masculine or 100 percent feminine."

We adjourn for lunch to a 100 percent feminine room, a conservatory with pink walls and a pink-cloaked table set with Minton china and tiny porcelain flowers at each place. "Do you know the Jewish mystical concept of soul-sharing?" she asks, spearing the Chinese chicken salad with her vermeil fork. "Ummm, I love this ginger. I once wrote a scene where Avigdor and I are discussing friendship and wondering whether we might be soul mates. A man and a woman can share the same soul, you know. "

In Singer's short story, where the love triangle has strong homosexual overtones, Yentl finds a way to deflower the virginal Hadass on their wedding night. "I toyed with that," says Streisand, toying with her china teacup. "In my first draft of the script, I blew out the candle, and in the next shot you see the candle missing. So you know what Yentl did. But movies are too real, too literal. That would have been farcical. Even without it, the scene is erotic. I mean the taboos make it sexy, you know? The fear of homosexuality can be very sexy. The fear of men and women touching before marriage can be very sexy. Today we've kind of destroyed that mystery." She glops some Cool Whip on her dietetic pumpkin souffl. "We've lost our wedding nights."

One day, when Streisand is sprawled on the carpet of her green and pink living room, I remark that I've heard she prefers to be photographed from the left. "Yeah," she says. "My nose is longer from the other side."

I ask if I can look. Thinking to myself that if I were a man I could never get away with this, I circumambulate America's biggest star and study, from every angle, the portion of her anatomy Time has called a shrine. To my untrained eye, the shrine looks equally well designed from all sides.

"No," says Streisand, "I have two very different sides of my face. My left side is more feminine. My right side is more masculine. In the movie I had myself photographed from the right to show a side of me that had hardly ever been seen. You know the scene after my father's funeral, where I look in a mirror and cut off my hair? I had a crack made in that mirror that would divide my face in half. Male and female."

In Isaac Bashevis Singer's story, Yentl's father, a scholar, dies before the narrative begins. In Barbra Streisand's film, he is alive for most of the first reel, teaching his daughter Talmud and planting seeds of intellectual curiosity. When he dies, it is Yentl, in a small cemetery, in the fading light of late afternoon, who performs what is traditionally a man's ritual and says the prayer of mourning called the kaddish. (For this scene, filmed in Czechoslovakia, Streisand temporarily moved the old gravestones to a hill because she liked the idea of the dead having a view.) Says Jon Peters, "Barbra was saying kaddish for her own father. She created him on film so she could love him and say good-bye to him. She buried her father in the movie."

Barbra Streisand's father, Emanuel Streisand, was a high school teacher with a master's degree in education who served as superintendent of schools at the Elmira Reformatory in upstate New York and also taught at a Brooklyn yeshiva. He died at 35, when Barbra was 15 months old, of what was thought for many years to have been a cerebral hemorrhage. His daughter assumed it was an inherited condition and feared that she, too, would die at 35. Only a year and a half ago did she learn that her father had actually died from an improperly treated epileptic seizure following a head injury. One morning Streisand spreads three photographs on the living room coffee table: yearbook portraits of her father from high school and college, and a picture of herself in yeshiva costume that she has just selected for the back of the Yentl sound-track album.

"I wasn't going to use this one," she says, "but then I thought, oh my God, that's my father. Look. The nose. The eyes. The shape of the face. Chin." It is true. The resemblance is uncanny. Streisand-as-Yentl looks like her father's younger brother, though in these pictures he was in fact only half her present age. Arranged neatly on the baby-pink bookcases in Streisand's living room, along with the rare art nouveau objects she collected before she became, as she puts it, "objected out," are rows of the classics: Alice in Wonderland, The Essays of Francis Bacon, The Works of Sophocles. These once belonged to her father. When he died, they were packed in boxes in the basement. "Then I discovered them and made them my books." she says. "My mother tells me I used to scribble all over them." She opens Gulliver's Travels and stares for a moment at the flyleaf, which is covered with childish drawings. "I guess you noticed I made Yentl love books too."

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