Gilligan's Island of Mystery: The Movie Star

Constantin Stanislavski said, "There are no small parts. Only small actors." True, but there are also small paychecks. That's why I went to Hollywood. Big parts. Big fame. Big money. And I got it, baby. I got it all. I've done some big pictures with some of Hollywood's dreamiest leading men. Mohawk Over the Moon with William Holden. The Rain Dancers of Rango Rango with Randolph Scott. San Quentin Blues with Elvis himself. I enjoyed that one because it was a musical. Any chance I get to show off my singing and dancing chops, I take it.

One of those opportunities came up a couple of weeks ago. A picture called The Hula Girl and the Fullback was looking for its Hula Girl to play opposite Steve McQueen. That's how I ended up in Honolulu. Research. I had taken on an acting coach who preached emotional truth. So, if I wanted to be the Hula Girl opposite Steve McQueen's Fullback, I needed to research.

The truth is I needed the part. Badly By the time I got to Hawaii, my career had become what my agent called “complicated,” which is Hollywood code for “radioactive.” Three years earlier I’d been starring in tropical romances and science fiction movies where my primary responsibility was screaming attractively while men in rubber monster suits chased me through caves. Small parts. Small paychecks. But I still believed I was a big star. Then suddenly the phone stopped ringing. Audiences changed. Studios changed. One producer told me I was “too classic.” Another said I was “too expensive.” A third said I had “sad eyes,” which was especially insulting because I’d paid a fortune for those eyes to look exactly that way.

So there I was at Honolulu International wearing sunglasses large enough to qualify as aircraft equipment, pretending I was in Hawaii for “rest and reflection” instead of hiding from creditors and a disastrous audition for a detective show called Lady Vice Squad. I’d lost the role to a former weather girl from Phoenix whose entire acting range consisted of narrowing her eyes and saying, “Not on my watch.”

The truth? I needed a break. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody would ask if I’d gained weight or why my last movie opened and closed on the same weekend. That’s how I ended up booking passage aboard the S.S. Minnow. Honestly, at the time, being stranded on a mysterious island with a group of unstable weirdos sounded better than another meeting with my agent.

Now, though, as I walk through the jungle thinking about acting and stardom and how I couldn't even get a part in a movie called Attack of 50-Foot Anteater, I wonder if perhaps acting was never in the bag for me. Perhaps I was meant to do something else. Some higher purpose. I've always been underestimated. I know how men look at me. Hear what women whisper about me. Not surprising when you're built like I am. The truth is my looks have gotten me far. But I feel empty. Unfulfilled. I yearn for something that can't be satisfied with box office clout or Academy Awards. Purpose, I guess.

Maybe that's why the Universe shipwrecked me on this island with six souls: to show me my true. Maybe amongst the brush and palm trees and coconuts and waterfalls and the beach and the lagoon and whatever the hell that black smoke thing is I will find something that finally reveals to me why I exist.

"Speak to me, Island!" I cry out. "Tell me your secrets!"

Then, I stub my toe. Pain shoots through my foot and up my leg. I fall to the ground, landing in some bushes. Scrambling to my feet, I turn to search for the object that tripped me. Something metallic is peaking out of the brush. I tear leaves and grass away from it to get a better look at what's underneath. A hatch door of some kind. Somehow, someway, this island has a hatch in the middle of nowhere.

"What the hell, Island?" I cry out again. "This doesn't help at all!"

I stand, brush off the gown I wore on the three-hour tour. A hot Halston number. As I walk back to camp, more frustrated than ever, I mutter to myself.

"What the hell is a stupid hatch doing in the middle of this island? Who does that? Where are we?