Skip to main content

Laurie Metcalf

 I'm getting ready to see "Death of a Salesman" tonight--my sole source of interest is Laurie Metcalf. Recently named one of the theater actors "you must see," Metcalf is always mesmerizing. Here are my three favorite Metcalf memories:


*"The Other Place." I think this was toward the start of Metcalf's Broadway reign. All I remember is that it begins with a monologue and that Metcalf's character is losing her mind. A theater actor has to command a cavernous space; there has to be a sense of "layering," a sense of mystery. I remember feeling that right away from Metcalf. She was the center of a force field--that's the only way I can describe it.

*"Little Bear Ridge Road." By this point, Metcalf had become something like Broadway's Mozart. In my favorite scene, she was near comatose--she was listening to a story that her troubled nephew had written. Because she had invested so much in her character, because her performance had been so detailed, she had created something like a real, living person. And you could *feel* her listening. Without a word, she gave a performance of intense listening. This was powerful and emotional.

*"Lady Bird." One might forget that Metcalf is an Oscar nominee. (She should have won.) This masterful film has Metcalf arguing with her daughter, Saorsie Ronan. In my memory, Ronan has an unrealistic dream--I think she wants to go to an Ivy League school (despite uneven grades). On some level, Metcalf understands that she ought to be gently encouraging--but, because of her own inner wounds, Metcalf cannot be gracious. Ronan gets the upper hand--she knows that Metcalf is not doing a "great" job as a parent (even if Metcalf's statements are factually correct). This scene ends--amazingly--with Ronan throwing herself out of a moving vehicle.

Hats off to Laurie Metcalf--my hero.
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

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

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more