Skip to main content

Frances McDormand

I can't stop writing and talking about the actor Chloe Fineman; you should know she also does a version of Frances McDormand.

 https://www.instagram.com/p/BgMl_G2HUVP/?hl=en

Ms. McDormand--dressed like a Greaser, from "The Outsiders"--appears for a film audition. (The movie title isn't given.) "Can I start?" she says to the camera, with crazed, inappropriate intensity.

"My name is Frances.....Mc....Dormand." Fully body shakes begin. "I'm so nervous, I'm hyperventilating....If I fall over, pick me up cuz I. Got Something. To Say." (It's nice to imagine Frances sputtering out her monologue while twitching on the ground; this does seem to capture something about the actual Frances McDormand.)

At this point, Frances begins racing, in an unintelligible way, through the opening of "Romeo and Juliet": "Two households in Verona....." This devolves into nonsense syllables: "TWO! HOUSE! HOLDS! HOO! HA! HOHHHH!"

"I come from the theater!" Frances shouts. "I'm old-fashioned. I love it. What else? What else? What else? I dunno." And the scene abruptly ends.

It's not clear that you have to know anything about Frances McDormand to appreciate this skit. (Here's what I know, from a Ruth Reichl memoir. A stranger approached Frances on a plane, and asked for an autograph. Instead of just graciously signing the napkin, Frances delivered a bizarre lecture: "I'm just an actor, I'm not as interesting as you. You should pay more attention to your own life. That's what is interesting." Imperious--and a little daffy and even charming? This is how I think of Frances McDormand.)
 
I just like that there's a character--in Chloe Fineman's imagination--who would take the simple act of auditioning and use it as a weird opportunity to do various dramatic finger snaps, jaw twitchings, and startling non-human shifts in "tempo." An immortal figure is born. You won't forget her.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more