No Ordinary Dream

BEHIND THE MOVIE Testament, there is a tale that hasn't yet been told. As the author of the short story on which the film was based, I've been interviewed for newspapers, magazines, on television, and radio. Until now there's one aspect of the experience I haven't voiced in public: the role I think God played in the whole sequence.

One morning in January 1969, at 4:00 a.m., I woke from a deep sleep. As my husband, Bob, slept beside me, I had a strange waking dream. For two hours I was at once a participant and an observer. I saw myself, my family, and neighbors in the aftermath immediately following nuclear explosions. Our little town had been spared direct hits. After the first days, we rallied to distribute canned food and bottled water. In time, though, such tactics proved futile. People—many people—began to die.

I've had vivid dreams before and, as a writer, dream-triggered ideas often find their way into my stories. But this was different. For one thing, I was awake. I also felt the conviction that I'd been given this story for a purpose. This was not some convenient plot I might spin out for my own advantage. I felt strongly that the story was intended for communication to a larger audience.

About 6:00 a.m. I wrote a few notes on a pad by the bed. Bob and I got up, and as we dressed, I told him a little about the dream. Then I got breakfast for him and our three children—at the time ranging from 7 to 11 years of age. When all of them were out the door for the day, I sat down at the typewriter.

For the first time in my writing life, I wrote without worrying about plot device or dialog. I had a nameless woman—a wife and mother of three children—use her journal to record the awful events and try to hold on to her sanity. About five hours later, when I finished, I looked at my familiar typewriter, my more-than-familiar fingers, and the 24-page manuscript. I knew I had typed it, but in the strictest sense, I had not written it. Not really.

It is probably relevant to explain here that mine is a very ordinary faith. On retiring most nights, I assess that I've been an adequate wife-mother-person, but I'm not counting on any sainthood awards. I'm active in our local United Methodist church, but at best I'm a middle-of-the-road Christian. I've had one or two experiences where I've been absolutely convinced of God's love and acceptance of me, experiences that keep me going through periods of doubt. With varying degrees of regularity, I pray, both for myself and others.

Certainly, up until that morning, I had no track record of being a person God spoke to from out of the firmament, and I was very careful, even though I knew this was no ordinary dream, not to allow myself to think of it as resembling in any way "divine guidance."

That night, not knowing what to expect, I handed the pages to Bob to read. When he finished he had to go outside to see if the stars were still there.

I polished the manuscript for several weeks and then began sending it out. For two-and-a-half years it made the rounds: women's magazines, college and literary quarterlies, denominational periodicals. On the form rejection slips that accompanied its return, very few editors made any comment.

Together, a United Methodist family magazine, liked the story, but couldn't handle it just then. If I hadn't succeeded in placing it within a year or so, they wrote, I might resubmit it for their consideration. A few years later, they suspended publication.

I offered the manuscript formally titled "Last Testament"—but which Bob and I called my "end-of-the-world story"—to a women's peace organization. "No strings attached," I said. "Please use it in any way you can." They told me they weren't in the publishing business.

Reluctantly, in the summer of 1972, I put "Last Testament" in a drawer. From time to time my failure nagged at me, but I told myself I'd tried, and it just hadn't worked out.

IN KEEPING WITH MY middle-of-the-road Christianity, my peace efforts prior to "Last Testament" could best be described as sporadic, if not timid. In May 1960, two years before our youngest child was born, I had marched in San Francisco along with 3,000 others, carried placards, and, when participants at our convocation were characterized as communist sympathizers, wrote in protest to newspapers. I also wrote to elected officials. I was really afraid we were going to blow up the world; I wanted, to let the people "in charge" know how I felt about that.

As years passed and the world seemed to be surviving, I relaxed a bit. From time to time I would read "Last Testament" and think it was a shame it hadn't been published, but I didn't seriously consider submitting it in the marketplace again.

Then one day in January 1980, with the news full of the recent Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, my husband made a suggestion. "I think you should send out your end-of-the-world story," Bob said. "It's timely now. Maybe people will pay attention."

In 11 years I'd achieved a measure of objectivity. I cared more about this story than anything I'd ever written, but it seemed a little preachy in parts and a little rambling. I made the journal entries more terse and tightened it overall. By spring I was ready. Though the manuscript had been polished, it was essentially the same story that had gone to editors in the late '60s and early '70s. For some reason I initially overlooked St. Anthony Messenger, but in the meantime I'd had a number of items published in this Ohio-based Catholic family magazine. At the very least, I suspected it would get a careful reading.

Jeremy Harrington, OFM., then the editor, wrote soon after receiving the manuscript. He was enthusiastic about the story, but there was a problem. In my dream I'd seen the main character—when it was obvious no one could survive the radiation sickness—deciding on death by carbon monoxide in the garage for herself, her son, and a retarded child. She didn't want either of the children to suffer on alone should she die before them.

Fr. Jeremy explained that while he could see how people might be pushed to such a solution under the circumstances, the staff could not—in a Catholic magazine—appear to endorse suicide. If I could rethink the ending and the result was consistent with my view of the story, they'd be glad to publish "Last Testament." If not, he felt sure I could place it elsewhere as it was.

I did rethink the ending. I decided that none of us knows what we would do in such a situation. It seemed logical that the woman would consider suicide, that she might actually try it, but perhaps at the last minute she would be unable to end her life and the lives of the children.

Later Jane Alexander, who portrayed the mother in the film, told a poignant story about that particular scene. The script called for her to start the car, and after the engine had fired, to say to her son Brad, "I can't do it." She knew her lines, of course. But Jane said it wasn't until she looked into the trusting face of Jerry Murillo, the neighbor child, played by an actual Down's syndrome boy, that she knew, really deep-down knew, the correct, innate response to the situation was "I can't do it."

AFTER ALL THE years of waiting, when "Last Testament" finally appeared in print in September 1980, I expected to go off duty. St. Anthony Messenger is a fine publication with a circulation of 350,000, and it would certainly be read—at last.

But though I was pleased, I couldn't seem to let the matter rest. I began sending the published version out as a reprint possibility. And I broke a few rules. Usually I approached editors with an attitude somewhere between respect and outright obsequiousness. This time I was bold. In my cover letters to potential reprinters of the story, I said, "Please take a look at this. It's important."

To date more than 30 publications have decided "Last Testament" is important enough to publish. It has appeared in this country and in Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. It has been read on the radio many times in the United States and in West Germany. A street theater group in the Midwest took the production on tour. People have copied the story and shared it with friends or sent it to the president and other elected officials.

It was as a result of an appearance in Ms. magazine in August 1981 that movie producers began calling about the possibility of making a film based on the story. After the initial experience of the dream itself, this was my first inkling of God's hand in the matter.

When the first producer called, I was stunned. While I had certainly tried my best to communicate in "Last Testament," a movie based on the story had never occurred to me. By the time the fourth producer made contact, I was praying hard. I'd heard the tales about "Hollywood" and authors who didn't even recognize their work when it was translated to film. I knew once I signed any contract I would have no further control. I had thought my job was to write the story and get it published. Now I saw I needed to choose the producer who would aim for the most honest adaptation. Two of the interested production companies indicated they would change the story substantially. I prayed even harder.

In the end I settled on Lynne Littman, an independent filmmaker whose previous credits, though impressive, were documentaries. This would be Lynne's first feature film. She had recently become a mother, and she wanted the world to be a place where her children, and all children, might grow up in safety.

"I want to spend a year of my life working on this," Lynne said. She spent almost that much time getting funding. Peace groups that might have contributed were funneling their resources into Freeze Voter activity. Grants Lynne sought just didn't come through. Eventually her company, LDL Films, Inc., obtained $500,000 from American Playhouse at PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) and $250,000 from Entertainment Events, an English firm—altogether an extremely modest amount.

One director described the rule of thumb for costs of a made-for-TV movie as currently near a million dollars an hour for non-exotic, ordinary location sets. Michael J. Farrell, a National Catholic Reporter reviewer, later commented that the entire budget for Testament would hardly have covered the cost of an artificial arm for R2D2 or a leg for E.T.

NOT ONE OF MY nightmares about Hollywood was realized. John Sacret Young wrote the screenplay, and I had an opportunity to read and approve the first working script. Lynne Littman kept me posted on progress and even invited our family to go on location.

Suddenly I got self-conscious. I'd written a story that was published; at least four producers thought it worthy of a movie, yet the prospect of going on location terrified me. I very much wanted to go, but I was afraid I'd be out of my depth. I suppose I thought they might view me as an amateurish, small-time writer who had accidentally lucked into a story.

Nevertheless, in February 1983, my husband and I and our three children, then 21 through 25, made plans to drive to Sierra Madre, near Pasadena in Southern California. A phone conversation with Jonathan Bernstein, co-producer of Testament, preceded our trip. As we discussed the shooting schedule, my doubts must have showed. "Is it really all right for us to come down there?" I wondered aloud. "We don't want to be in the way."

Jonathan harrumphed and sputtered. "There wouldn't be a location, let alone a movie, if it weren't for your story," he said. "You just come on down and stay as long as you want."

Two weeks before we departed, our minister banished the last bit of uncertainty. He preached about our carrying out God's plan for our lives and used the Jeremiah 1:9 passage, "I put my words in your mouth." Sitting there that Sunday morning, I think I finally admitted that I believed "Last Testament" had come from God.

And if God had provided the story, I was being silly to care what the actors and crew thought of me. I had done my part; now they were doing theirs. We went to Sierra Madre and had an absolutely wonderful time. Several crew members told us they had never worked on such a congenial set and that in spite of difficult, rainy weather, it was a joy to be part of such a project. A man on the production end said he could have made as much money in one day shooting a commercial as he'd be getting for the entire 28 days filming Testament, but he was there anyway because he believed in it.

Another milestone occurred that summer at the film's premiere showing for cast and crew. It hit me then that some of the images I had carried in my head for 14 years were now reality. Or almost.

In early fall that year we happened to run into Lynne Littman and her husband, Taylor Hackford, while we visited our son at the University of California at Santa Barbara. It had just been announced that Testament, intended from the start for PBS and primarily funded by them, had been picked up for distribution in movie theaters by Paramount Pictures. Taylor Hackford is the director of the movie An Officer and a Gentleman, and as we chatted he tried to impress on us the extraordinary chain of events.

"You probably don't realize," he said, "how unusual this is—that your story in a rather obscure magazine would get made into a movie in the first place—a good movie, but for the small audience of PBS—and that it would then get picked up for worldwide distribution by Paramount. Well, it just doesn't happen that way. Not usually."

IN THE WEEKS prior to Testament's theatrical release on November 4, 1983, the countdown began. The publicity department at Paramount wondered if I'd be willing to help out with promotion. I agreed, and the first of many newspaper interviews began. Then, a day or two before the movie opened, I was scheduled on the popular San Francisco TV program "People Are Talking."

The day before the show, several friends had a birthday luncheon for me, and guests were full of advice about proper TV behavior. "Wear your glasses," one suggested. "Don't wear your glasses," three others advised. By the time I went to bed that night I couldn't stop worrying. Hour after hour I envisioned my goof-ups on television with thousands watching.

I was in a panic, yet it didn't occur to me—not for a long time—to pray about my predicament. At the very least, if I were somehow spared making a fool of myself, I figured I'd have colossal bags under my eyes.

Finally, around 3:30 a.m., I threw it all back on God. I'm not sure of the exact wording, but the intent was this: "If it's your will for me to get through this with a little grace, please be with me tomorrow—oops, I mean later today. Help me say and do the right things." Almost immediately I felt a tremendous sense of peace and dropped off to sleep.

When I got up at about 6:00 a.m., I read the Jeremiah passage again and it all fell into place. If God really was in charge and the project had gotten this far, God wouldn't abandon me to make a fool of myself on television. And if God wasn't in charge or didn't have anything to do with Testament, it didn't really matter whether I made a fool of myself or not. It was that simple.

That morning, as the revolving stage turned and I sat alone waiting to face the television audience, my throat was a bit dry. But I've since seen a tape of the show, and I almost don't recognize that person sitting there—a woman who seems so calm discussing the background behind the story and the film.

One questioner in the audience wanted to know how I compared my "revelation" with the Revelation of St. John in the Bible. In spite of finally acknowledging God's presence in the whole thing, I still do not believe the events in the story are foreordained, and I said so—gently, politely.

Though Paramount's publicity efforts waned about a month after the movie's release, requests for me to talk about the film did not. I've been on television a number of times as well as on radio. I've spoken at churches and colleges, at fund-raisers and educational events for peace groups. Once in a while I get butterflies just before I start to tell the story again, but I've never been at a loss for words or felt afterward that I did poorly.

A year after the theatrical release, Testament was aired on television on PBS; it is also available now for home use as a video cassette. Despite the fact it was never a big box office success, it's a movie that just will not die.

I have seen people leaving theaters too stunned to talk after seeing the film. I have seen the reaction Lynne Littman had hoped for, that Jane Alexander had hoped for, that I had hoped for—that the ideas would not end with reading the story or seeing the movie; that somehow people would be touched or changed and would want to work to keep the events in Testament from becoming reality.

Several people have told me Testament has literally changed their lives; that they are not the same now as they were before seeing it; that they're more committed to working for peace.

I'VE CHANGED TOO. God is more real for me. I have a surer, calmer sense of God's timing and an overall trust. I know I still have to do my part, but I don't need to worry so much about details. In spite of the demands on my time and energy, the Testament talks have provided a positive influence on my life.

Not that I'm totally immune to the lures of self-importance and conceit. After all, I have met Jane Alexander in person and chatted with other actors in the movie. I have talked with Jane several times on the phone, once immediately after she was nominated for an Academy Award as best actress for her role in the movie. In a letter to me she said she had been telling the world "how the diary came to you in the night—like the Holy Ghost."

And then, just when I get all puffed up, I remember where the story came from. Mostly I don't have false pride or false humility about my role in the whole sequence. I know, more often than not, where the credit lies.

There aren't any answers in Testament, only a lot of hard questions. I am no expert on Pershing missiles or first-strike capability, and I certainly don't want to be viewed as some kind of spokesperson for the peace movement.

But I do know, from being present in many theaters where the movie has played, that it makes people think and feel. It has power. People don't forget the story easily.

The most heart-breaking members of Testament audiences are the children. Children seem to get a lot more of the content than adults think they will. They understand—even 7-year-olds—about radiation. But the hardest thing for them to comprehend is why Testament doesn't have a happy ending, why "the Daddy doesn't come home at the end" like most of the stories they watch on television and in the movies.

After one church-sponsored showing, a girl named Nida came up and questioned me. Was the father really dead or was he maybe going to come back later? In spite of my earlier confidence in fielding difficult questions, I was finally at a loss. This 8-year-old looked up and asked, "Why does God make bombs?"

I parried the best I could. "God doesn't make the bombs, Nida," I said. "Please don't ever think the bombs came from God. God made people so we could think, so we could use our minds. It was people who made the bombs."

I groped for the right words. Her dark eyes demanded honesty, but I didn't want to frighten her. "God still leaves it up to us, up to people. We have to figure out some way to keep the bombs from being used."

I hope Nida understood. I'm not at all sure I do.

Carol Amen was a free-lance writer and teacher of writing and lived with her husband and their three children in Sunnyvale, California when this article appeared.