【我是个很迟钝的人万一有谁发过了请和我说一声~】
Moore is fond of quoting Flaubert’s dictum “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”

The choreography of ordinariness requires time as well as timing. The scene was played, stopped, then played again, until even the onlookers had memorized the lines, the moves, and the delivery, which got tighter with each take. When Miller stepped into the scene to discuss adjustments with the actors, the sound on the video monitor went suddenly mute, taking away any prospect of overhearing Moore’s thoughts. As the shoot wore on, a sort of soporific haze settled over the spectators; around midday, I momentarily lost track of Moore on the monitor. As I tried to locate her, there was a rustling on the stairs leading to the production office. When I looked up, Moore was making her way toward me, her thick red hair knotted into a high bun that flapped like a squirrel’s tail. She thrust her cheek forward to be kissed. “You’re here. How are you? So nice to see you,” she said. It was the first time we’d laid eyes on each other.
Although Moore, at fifty-four, is a current face of L’Oréal, she is no conventional glamour-puss. Hiding in plain sight is how she tries to negotiate her public life. “I try to make myself small,” she told me. “I try not to call attention to myself. ” The novelist Michael Cunningham remembers going out for a coffee with Moore, who had starred in the 2002 Stephen Daldry movie based on his novel “The Hours.” As they stepped outside, he noticed that she changed. “You just did something, didn’t you?” he asked. “She said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘You retracted your beauty, didn’t you?’ She said, ‘Oh, yeah, kind of,’ ” Cunningham said. “She pulled something in. There was a glow that she’d emanated in the living room that she could retract in the street.”
Moore may have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but she exhibits none of the imperialism of celebrity; she has no desire to make a spectacle of her separation from others. “I don’t understand why that would serve you as a person or as an actor,” she said. She is contained but not reserved; her good manners are a form of non-friction, intended to preëmpt envy while inviting contact. “I don’t like playing antagonism,” Moore said to Miller, after shooting a scene in which she had to be aggressive with the title character, Maggie (Greta Gerwig), a marital carpetbagger. “I feel I’m really like a Labrador—‘I mean no harm. I mean no harm,’ ” she told me. “I lead with friendliness. I feel that works for me. I don’t want to be aggressive. I don’t want to push to be in a dominant situation.” At the same time, she doesn’t retreat into herself. She’s present. She listens. “She works by being completely open to what’s outside her,” Miller said. “When she’s with another actor, she’s not closing him off so she can listen to what’s going on inside herself. She’s actually awake.”

Moore has a visual imagination as well as a mimetic one. It’s important for her to see herself not just in the role but also in the frame. “Acting is not all about feeling,” she said. “It’s not all about what’s on the inside. There’s a physicality to what the frame is. Sometimes you want to see what story it’s telling.” Moore’s performances, at once penetrating and succinct, come from a calibration of the character with the scale and proportion of what the camera is showing. Not long into the shoot of David Cronenberg’s “Maps to the Stars” (2014), a coruscating satire about Hollywood, in which Moore played Havana Segrand, a movie star persecuted by memories of her legendary actress mother—a bravura performance, which won her the Best Actress Award at Cannes—Moore approached Cronenberg. “ ‘I love how you’re isolating us in the frame,’ ” Cronenberg recalled her telling him. “ ‘It really works for suggesting that all these characters are in a kind of isolated bubble and are so self-obsessed.’ ” “It was nothing that I’d talked to her about,” he said. “She could just see that I wasn’t doing over-the-shoulder shots. Everybody was isolated in their closeup. She saw that immediately, knew what it meant, knew why I was doing it. She’s totally aware of everything.”
Moore may be aware of everything that happens in the process of filmmaking, but she prefers to keep her own process a mystery. When, for instance, Cronenberg offered to show me her e-mails about her role in “Maps to the Stars,” she asked him not to. “Much of it was about the ins and outs of physical stuff . . . whether or not I should dye my hair blond, or if the production had enough money to make a wig, etc. etc.,” she e-mailed me. “I just felt that the exchange demystifies the process a little.”
Moore doesn’t like to rehearse. She wants to be taken by surprise, and feels that repetition can deaden the experience. “She is protecting something extremely vital and untamed that she can unleash on camera,” Todd Haynes, in whose films “Safe” (1995) and “Far from Heaven” (2002) Moore has given two of her greatest performances, said. “She doesn’t want to overthink, overplan, overanticipate.” “I prepare very stringently,” Moore told me. “I really know my lines. I really think about what I’m gonna do. Sometimes people think that means I’ve already played the part in my head. That’s not true. I know the parameters. Then, when the camera goes on, I’m ready to have an experience. I don’t want it to happen in my living room. I want it to happen on camera.”

A character exists for Moore only once she exists on paper. “I hate it when people pitch stuff,” she said. “That doesn’t help me. Let me see the words.” According to Bruce Wagner, who wrote the screenplay for “Maps to the Stars,” Moore, who never reads stage directions, is “a brutal parser of the text.” To generate emotion, she doesn’t call on sense memory from her own life, as actors are often taught to do; instead, she immerses herself in the circumstances of the character. “I have to find the place where the character cries; I have to find the place where she’s hurt,” Moore said. (“Julianne Moore Loves to Cry,” a three-minute YouTube montage from twenty of her films, bears lachrymose witness to her claim.)
Even in the most fraught scenes, Moore’s work is highly technical. “There’s nothing more awkward than scenes that deal with sexuality,” Hawke said. “Because if you have a fight scene you have a choreographer come in and do it. But if people want sexuality they’re just, like, ‘O.K., let the actors go,’ like you’re wild animals that are supposed to just do this stuff on call. And it’s very difficult to do anything that has feeling to it that reads on camera.” But, for a sex scene in “Maggie’s Plan,” he said, “Julie had a distinct sense of ‘This needs to be a two-shot, this needs to be a single. It cuts here.’ She had very specific demands about where the scene ended and where it would begin. And ‘No, that’s not sexy, that’s not funny. That’s gross.’ And she was dead right. And what is normally difficult became really, really easy. There’s a math to everything we do, to how emotions read, and she’s acutely aware of it.”
Moore is fond of quoting Flaubert’s dictum “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.” And she insists on that regularity. “I’m incredibly bourgeois,” she said. “And I don’t care. I’m not wild. There’s nothing outrageous about me. I’m really a pretty nice person. I am not erratic in my behavior. You know the kind of people who are really irregular—they keep people off balance that way. I’m not that kind of person.” “Julie’s great adventure is her imagination,” her younger brother, the novelist Peter Smith, said. (Moore was born Julie Anne Smith; Anne is her mother’s name, and Moore is her father’s middle name.) “She understands the force and wildness of it. It’s a blessing and a warning. It’s this big crazy thing. It’s something that makes her feel really confident.”

After graduating, in 1983, Moore moved to New York, where she waited tables—“I was an excellent waitress. I’m very impatient with people who tell me they’re not good at waiting tables. I’m, like, ‘Well, you’re just not paying attention’ ”—and began her single-minded pursuit of her craft. In 1985, after some work in regional theatre, she landed a regular role as Frannie Hughes, and then as her evil half sister, Sabrina, on the CBS soap opera “As the World Turns.” (She won a Daytime Emmy Award for Outstanding Ingénue in 1988, the year she left the show.) Although Moore puts a happy face on this journeyman period of her professional life, “she hated soap operas,” according to the actor Larry Pine, who worked with her on “As the World Turns.”
Moore began to understand what it meant to inhabit a character when she joined André Gregory’s workshop for “Uncle Vanya,” in 1990. Tipped off by Pine, who had already been enlisted for the workshop, Gregory and Wallace Shawn went to see Moore in a production of Caryl Churchill’s double bill “Ice Cream with Hot Fudge,” at the Public Theatre. “There was one moment in her performance that was absolutely staggering,” Gregory recalled. “She was sitting on the floor reading a newspaper and doing absolutely nothing, saying nothing. But whatever she had going on inside was terrifying.” Afterward, Gregory took her to dinner. He asked her, “Could you tell me what you were doing when you were sitting on the floor?” She said, “I was counting from one to sixty.” Gregory said, “It showed a very clever actress who understood what she didn’t need to do to get the appropriate response.”
“I owe a huge debt to André, because that painstaking five-year process changed how I thought about acting and what I wanted to do,” Moore said. “He encouraged us to play each moment for action and reaction, to literally respond to what an actor gave. He allowed me for the first time as an actor not to be result-oriented. What is in front of me? What is happening? What could happen? What is different?” “I think Julie learned over time not how to act but how to be,” Gregory said. He added, “For two or three weeks, in rehearsals you could not hear a single word that she said. She was just mumbling. Or whispering. And actors would come to me on the side and say, ‘I don’t know what to do, because I can’t hear her, so I don’t know when to give my cue.’ And I, being the weird director I am, said, ‘Just let her do it.’ And I think what she was doing was creating the introvert. In a very subtle way.”

Freundlich recalled a moment, at the end of the first week of shooting “Fingerprints,” when Moore was standing outside without a coat in the Maine chill. “I came up to her and stood with my back to the wind. I didn’t want her to be cold, and I also didn’t want to put my arm around her, or smother her, because I didn’t know her that well,” he said. “Even though I couldn’t have articulated it then, I understood that I could keep her warm up to a point. But then the rest was going to be for her to do. We connected in that moment on an unspoken level, where she knew I saw that flame in her, and understood it, and was willing not to suffocate it but to protect it.”
Freundlich was a week away from shooting his latest script, “Wolves,” a Lower East Side coming-of-age story involving basketball, which he himself has played a couple of times a week for the past fifteen years. At Knicks games, to which the couple have season tickets, Moore suffers courtside with Freundlich. (“I have a chronic belief that each year will be better,” he said. “I think this’ll be the last year.”) “I like basketball because I like to watch the faces,” Moore told me. At one point in the conversation, she led me into the living room to show off a large framed black-and-white photograph of the Knicks by George Kalinsky, the official photographer of Madison Square Garden, which she’d given to Freundlich for his birthday. “And this is Willis, what’s his name?” Moore said, calling back to Freundlich, who was making a smoothie. “They’re about to win the championship. This is a famous moment in Knicks history. What’s the name of this guy? The one I got you. Willie?”
“That’s Willis Reed,” Freundlich said. He added, “Those were the days when they wore long pants.” It was Freundlich’s wry way of telling his wife that in the photo the Knicks were still warming up and were not yet playing a game. Over the years, Freundlich’s jokey approach to life seems to have relaxed Moore and made her more humorous herself. “She had that in her,” he said. “I just brought it out.”
At one point, their daughter, Liv, who had been watching “Valentine’s Day” downstairs, came in. Moore introduced her, then made the parental gaffe of trying to brush fuzz out of her red hair, a gesture that earned her some severe adolescent blowback. Moore may be an idol to the public, but to her daughter, as Moore said afterward, “I’m an idiot, let’s put it that way.” She continued, “The other morning, I was making her waffles, and she got it on her sweater. She kind of went like this”—Moore flicked her hand. “I said, ‘No, no, let me get that.’ She goes, ‘No.’ I said, ‘It’s gonna bother you all day.’ And she goes, ‘No. It’s gonna bother you all day.’ ” She added, “I always feel that your job as a parent is just to be steady. In our family, my husband’s the fun one, the sporty one. I’m the mom that’s always asking them to clean up, put your clothes in the laundry basket, pick up those papers, just trying to keep things clean. That’s very irritating about me, they think.”
Freundlich works at the top of the house; Moore’s small office, which overlooks the street, is on the third floor, off their bathroom, which has a marble tub like a sarcophagus at its center. Behind her desk chair, looking over her shoulder, is her Oscar statuette, along with a baker’s dozen of other trophies. On the wall just above her computer are photographs of the children and their notes of endearment; to the side, on a bureau, are framed shots of her with her parents and an Expressionist statue of a mother and child, which used to sit on her mother’s desk. Anne Smith died of septicemia, at the age of sixty-eight, in 2009, two months before her retirement, a fact that still brings tears to Moore’s eyes. On the weekend that she fell ill, instead of going to a doctor Anne stayed in bed. “If she had gone to the doctor, she would have been fine,” Moore said. “Septic shock is one of the top ten leading causes of death. Generally, you can catch it, so it was infuriating.” The suddenness of the loss made it particularly traumatic for her. “I think a lot in narrative. I work in narrative. I always think of that shape,” she said. “And what you learn from the loss of someone like that is that life isn’t like that. We impose narrative on everything in order to understand it. Otherwise, there’s nothing but chaos.”

“I had a lot of nine-to-five jobs before I realized I needed to pretend to be creative.”
The next time I saw Moore, we had breakfast before a looping session for “Freeheld,” a movie directed by Peter Sollett, in which she plays Laurel Hester, a lesbian police officer who is dying of cancer and fighting the Ocean County, New Jersey, Board of Chosen Freeholders to allow her pension benefits to be transferred to her girlfriend. The film, which will be released in October, is based on a 2007 Oscar-winning documentary of the same title, and co-stars Ellen Page as Laurel’s lover.
At first, Moore said, she couldn’t understand the character she was playing: “I didn’t know who she was. I could see Laurel in the documentary. I could see Laurel in the script. But there wasn’t any corollary. I was having a hard time.” Her research led her to Ocean County and to the real Laurel’s girlfriend, Stacie Andree, who showed Moore photographs of Laurel that no one else had seen. “Laurel had this beautiful blond hair, somewhat Farrah Fawcetty,” Moore said. “When they did the documentary, she’d already lost it through chemo. Once I saw how she’d looked, I understood. It was just from the look. You don’t know when you start doing the work what you’re gonna find. Or how to find it. A very small thing can lead to a big thing.” Moore took out her iPhone and scrolled through photos of Stacie and Laurel and then her own startling transformation for the role. In the photo, Moore, in a wig, had disappeared into the character; she was unrecognizable.
As we set off for the recording session, at the Harbor Picture Company, in the Village, Moore blushed and said, “I’m probably going to let you stay for, like, half an hour. I don’t want you to get in my way. Because you will. You’ll take up mental space, and I need to have focus.” In the recording studio, a lectern had been set up for Moore, facing the front wall, which was a movie screen. On it were neatly typed pages of the words and sounds to be re-voiced. Eliza Paley, the supervising dialogue editor, sat at a desk to the left. Peter Sollett and I took our seats on a beat-up, dun-colored sofa, just below the sound-booth window. “He’s only going to stay for a little while,” Moore said to Sollett. “Don’t say anything embarrassing.” Then she scrutinized the first page of lines—“Funny,” “Damn it,” “Where’d they go?,” “Got it.” The scene in question was played on the screen. Amid a barrage of expletives, Laurel gave chase to a couple of villains. “I think it’s better as ‘Where’d they go?’ and then ‘Damn it.’ ‘Where’d they go. Shit. Damn it,’ ” Moore said. “That’s too many. Shit. Damn it.”
“It seems like ‘Damn it’ should be the TV line,” Sollett said. “We don’t think that ‘Damn it’ will get us booted off of network TV?”
“It’s fine,” Bobby Johanson, the recording mixer, kicked in from the sound booth.
“You know what? Let’s just take it out,” Moore said. The line was replayed a few times. “It’s a little raspy. Let me try another one,” she said, finally nailing it.
Then she addressed the issue of recording the appropriate grunts for Laurel as she is pushed to the ground in a scuffle. After the first try, Paley said, “That’s more like winded. It’d be good to have a variation.”
“I think you need an impact. That’s what’s missing. I think it should be”—Moore grunted—“and you should hear the thump on the ground of the body. I think it’s better to hear the body hit, right? Don’t you? Let me give you another. See, John,” she added. “It’s all fun and games.”
“This is the art,” Sollett said.

At one dramatic point onscreen, Laurel and Stacie, who recently met, kiss for the first time and are set upon by some local thugs. “You two a couple of dykes?” one of them brays, and demands their money. Laurel draws her gun and backs them off. Afterward, she tells Stacie that she’s a detective.
Stacie: You always carry a gun?
Laurel: Most of the time.
Stacie: On a date?
The line made me laugh out loud. “That’s why we kept it in,” Sollett said.
Watching the moment where Laurel points her gun at the thugs, Moore didn’t like the sound of her voice. “I want to bring my pitch down, because it makes no sense for me to keep yelling like an idiot. ‘Walk away. Keep moving. Did you hear me? Go!’ ” After a few more tries, Moore turned toward me. It was time for me to go.
She walked me out of the studio and sent me on my way uptown. As the car eased into traffic, I turned to see her hurrying back to her play world, and I remembered something that the screenwriter Bruce Wagner had said about Moore: “She’s got a secret, but we’re never going to find out what it is. She’s so affable. She presents as the girl next door. But she’s the Sphinx next door.” ♦
*An earlier version of this article misstated which airborne division Moore’s father was in.

好长

求翻译，，，

换头像了啊

也不错

求翻译

确实很长！十分钟才看了一层楼