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In Paris late last year, Frances McDormand was marching from the Right Bank to the Left at an extraordinary pace. “I’m practicing my route,” she said, speeding off in the wrong direction before stopping short. “Which way is the river?” she asked, scanning the narrow boulevards snaking in every direction. I pointed left, and she took off so swiftly that I had to run to catch up. When I did, she was cursing under her breath at her faulty inner compass. She has lived most of her life in Manhattan.
A Timeline of 20th Century Apostasy I’m quoting this entire article at length, because I want you to see specifically how bad things have gotten. Yesterday I commented that we were drowning in apostasy, and that it was so bad the waters had literally just closed over our heads. Bible Analyzer is a free, cross-platform, Bible study software program Bible Analyzer Bible Software - Free Premium Bible Software For Windows, Macintosh, and Linux Bible Knowledge Biblical Art BIBLE TRUTH Word of God Jehovah Witness Jehovah s witnesses Prayers OLd TEStaMEnT CELESTIAL.
She likes grids. The route she was practicing began at the Centre Pompidou, where she was performing with the experimental theater company the Wooster Group, of which she has been a member for nearly two decades. It ended at a friend’s apartment off the Boulevard St.-Germain. The rest of the company was lodged in the Marais, and McDormand had been concerned about the state of their accommodations. She likes to be sure that her co-stars are comfortably situated and has been known to inspect and then personally redecorate cast quarters in advance of their arrival. On one of the Wooster Group’s previous Paris tours, the hotel was less than clean, and though no one could call McDormand high maintenance, she has no patience with squalor. “We’re avant-garde.
It doesn’t mean we have to be unhygienic.”. Frances McDormand, or Fran, as she is called in regular life, cuts a handsome figure on the street. She is 60 and sexy in the manner of women who have achieved total self-possession.
She eschews makeup unless she is working, doesn’t dye her hair and despises the nips, tucks and lifts that have become routine for women of her profession. Her clothes are well made — she loves clothes — but utilitarian and comfortable. On this day she was wearing loose-legged cropped pants, black-and-peach sneakers, a navy sweater and a thin headband shoved in and out of uncombed hair as the mood struck. She doesn’t do press junkets, and for most of the 20 years since she won a Best Actress Academy Award for playing Marge Gunderson, the tremendously pregnant, improbably cheerful police detective in “Fargo,” she has refused interviews. Her publicist explained to me that his job is to politely tell people to go away.
McDormand improvising in TriBeCa in August. Credit Katy Grannan for The New York Times In 2009, she optioned Elizabeth Strout’s novel “Olive Kitteridge” shortly before it won the Pulitzer Prize. She and a friend, the screenwriter Jane Anderson, embarked on a long adaptation for HBO.
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“She later admitted to me that it made her nervous; she didn’t know if she could carry a film,” Anderson told me. McDormand kept asking to take Olive out of scenes, to make her a supporting part. “I said, ‘Fran, it’s called “Olive Kitteridge”!
She can’t be a side character.’ ”. Advertisement “Olive Kitteridge” is a four-hour peregrination inside one woman’s life — a postmenopausal woman who’s not the Queen of England or an aging rock star or a mother suffering picturesquely from dementia, but a starchy middle-school math teacher living in Down East Maine. Olive is furious and uncompromising, agitated by her husband, who is “oppressively nice” (McDormand’s words), puzzled and disappointed by her son, ill at ease with emotion and bewildered by social niceties. She burps uncontrollably and spares no one the truth. She’s moral, she cares, but still she’s unable to be what the people closest to her need: warm, compromising, wifely, motherly.
The project was the first work McDormand ever produced for herself, after a long career in which her only power, as she describes the actor’s lot, was the power to say no. It was also her first concentrated effort to create a female story that felt as complex as real women’s lives.
“I became interested in educating people in the variety of ways in which women can express their emotion. Which is much easier to do in a large role than in a supporting role to a male protagonist. In general, the women in a supporting role to a male protagonist — cry a lot.” McDormand insisted on Olive’s right not to cry and battled the director, Lisa Cholodenko, over whether Olive should break down at several key moments in the series. The women were already comfortable working together.
Cholodenko, who directed McDormand in “Laurel Canyon” (2002), prevailed, pleading that the audience needed an opportunity to feel affection for the character. (McDormand privately made a list for me of which moments of crying were authentically Olive, and which were her doing what she was told.) The balance they struck worked: “Olive Kitteridge” won eight Emmys in 2015, including the Outstanding Lead Actress in a Limited Series or Movie award for McDormand.
This fall, she will be the star of a film featuring another caustic antiheroine, who was written just for her: Mildred in Martin McDonagh’s “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.” McDormand plays a mother whose daughter has been raped and murdered, and who has made it her mission to terrorize the local Police Department until they give the case the attention it deserves. Mildred is a difficult character — she’s violent, sometimes in baffling ways. She’s foulmouthed and enraged, pitiless and a bit demented. She stomps around town in a car mechanic’s jumpsuit with the back of her head shaved, ready to scorch the earth. McDormand is imposing in the role mostly because of her stillness. Her back is ramrod straight inside her jumpsuit.
She doesn’t walk; she strides. “I really played it like a man,” she said. “I completely based the character upon John Wayne and John Ford movies, because that’s a two-hour arc.
Those characters can come out of nowhere, they don’t need a lot of background, you don’t have to explain why they’re like that, they just are the way they are.” McDonagh thought of Mildred more as a Marlon Brando character. “We both liked her,” he told me, “we both loved her, but didn’t want to do anything to make her more likable or lovable. For once, we don’t have to show the female side or the light side or the nurturing, mothering side.
We both said, ‘expletive that, we’re doing something different this time.’ ” Whether or not you buy the notion that rage and violence are incompatible with “a female side,” whether you like the notion that the actor’s way into Mildred was to “play it like a man,” there’s something surprising about seeing a female protagonist like Mildred. Nothing is done to make her grief soft or even to imply that she was a very good mother in the first place.
She isn’t made for viewing pleasure or to teach a lesson; she’s just there, hurling Molotov cocktails at the world. One evening after rehearsal with the Wooster Group, McDormand walked to a cafe across from the Centre Pompidou for a drink with Kate Valk, who was directing the production, and the Wooster Group’s founder and director, Elizabeth LeCompte. McDormand intends to die onstage with these women, or so she said over drinks. In 1999, after seeing one of the group’s productions, she approached LeCompte to ask if she could join them. She didn’t want to accept film jobs that would take her away from her young son.
People kept stopping her in the grocery store asking her to do the “Fargo” accent, and the Wooster Group, a pioneer of avant-garde theater, was appealingly removed from the machine of Hollywood celebrity. “I need to work, and I need a home,” McDormand said.
LeCompte agreed. “Early Shaker Spirituals” is McDormand’s favorite of the productions she has done with the group. In it, five of the group’s female members (LeCompte, McDormand, Cynthia Hedstrom, Bebe Miller and Suzzy Roche) recreate a field recording of Shaker spirituals made in 1976 at one of the last remaining Shaker colonies, in Maine. “These women are not trying to sing pretty,” McDormand said. “Kate always has to remind me not to make it pleasant.
You fail if you try to make a pleasant sound.” In rehearsal, as in life, her body is kinetic and restless. The company was brushing up the performance after a long break, and whenever someone made an error, McDormand’s mouth twisted or her eyes betrayed intense perception and restrained irritation. Throughout rehearsal, she was rapt but funny, keeping one ear tuned toward Valk’s mood at all times while finding moments to touch or joke with the cast and crew. She was the goody-two-shoes and the class clown wrapped up in one.
Advertisement “What’s perfect about the union of the Wooster Group and the Shakers is that both are matriarchal, both are about discipline and rigor and work,” McDormand explained to me over drinks with Valk and LeCompte. LeCompte had a glass of Sancerre, McDormand had a glass of viognier and Valk had a smoothie. “Its foundation is postmenopausal women. The five of us, Liz being the oldest and in a position of power, and Kate directing us — so it’s six postmenopausal women. And what you gain after menopause is the power of invisibility.
You become sexually invisible to both men and women. You gain the power of not giving a expletive.” “And we love the music,” Valk added. McDormand nodded, looking pensive. “And I love the bonnet.” A preposterously muscled young man walked by, and McDormand followed him with her eyes. “That physiognomy is part of what’s happening with gender equality right now. Men are trying to indicate that they are still marketable procreators — it’s like plumage.” Valk agreed. “It’s like that great documentary on the American wood duck.
And all the things that male wood ducks do.” The conversation shifted to my presence. LeCompte and Valk were curious about what McDormand had gotten herself into. “Are they going to take photographs of you?” Valk wanted to know.
She turned to me. “Is she going to be a cover girl?” McDormand made a face. They never —” She stopped.
“I’m not a cover-type person.” Before anyone could protest, she changed the subject: She thought perhaps a bird had pooped in her wine. She signaled the waiter and caught my eye. “Do you think you can tell him that a bird pooped in my wine and I’d like a little extra?” The waiter arrived. “ Monsieur, un oiseau a.” I hesitated, forgetting the French verb and realizing too late that the bird had also targeted my phone, which was sitting near her wine. Shortly after returning from Paris, I received an email from her with the subject line “My head shot.” It contained a photograph of her floating naked in a lake. She doesn’t like having her picture taken, she wrote, but this might suit the magazine’s purposes.
Two months after that, she sent me a picture of herself at the dinner table with a head of cauliflower perched atop her like a crown. In reply to the lake picture, I sent her the poet Mary Ruefle’s essay “Pause.” Hot flashes are the least of menopause, Ruefle tells the young woman she imagines might be reading. You will want to drive a knife through your heart; you will want to leave your lover, no matter how much you have loved them. You will feel as though your life is over, because it is. You will realize for the first time that your whole life people have looked at you because you are a woman and people look at women — but now, suddenly, you are invisible. But then something magical happens: You are a woman, the ten years of menopause have passed, you love your children, you love your lover, but there are no longer any persons on earth who can stop you from being yourself.
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You would never want to be a girl again for any reason at all, you have discovered that being invisible is the biggest secret on earth, the most wondrous gift anyone could ever have given you. “She got it perfectly,” McDormand wrote back a few hours later. “Around 46 years of age, I became concerned that I may slaughter my family. I was perimenopausal when Pedro” — her son — “was in the throes of adolescence and at the mercy of testosterone poisoning. I continue to have three hot flashes daily, one bout of cold sweats per night, and have reveled in my invisibility for 10 years.
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So there.” Photo. ‘‘Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri,’’ 2017. Credit Merrick Morton/Fox Searchlight Pictures Recently, at a benefit for her local radio station, McDormand introduced herself this way: “Hello.
My name is Frances Louise McDormand, formerly known as Cynthia Ann Smith. I was born in Gibson City, Ill., in 1957. I identify as gender-normative, heterosexual and white-trash American.” She explained: “My parents were not white trash. My birth mother was white trash.” McDormand was the last and, she thinks, ninth child to be taken in by Noreen and Vernon McDormand. Vernon was a pastor with the Disciples of Christ who had a talent for starting new outposts of the church.
He and Noreen moved between working-class communities in the South and the Midwest every few years, and because Noreen was never able to carry a pregnancy to term, the couple fostered children wherever they went. They adopted two, a son and a daughter, through the foster system. In the late ’50s, they adopted their third, a 1-year-old named Cynthia, who, as far as anyone knows, was born to a young woman in Vernon’s parish. They changed her name to Frances.
Author: philipdean2013 Seminary graduate with a Ba. In Theology/Pastoral Studies, Happily married, Independent Baptist. I can't keep silent about what I see going on in Christianity any longer! Apostasy reigns around us, churches are sliding into worldiness, a whitewashed Gospel is preached everywhere. 'Thus saith the LORD, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.
But they said, We will not walk therein. Jeremiah 6:16 (KJV) So, I'm speaking out.Why aren't you??? Author Posted on Categories, Tags,.