Once upon a time, when I first moved to L.A. but still kept an apartment in New York, I was a monthly traveler on United
Once upon a time, when I first moved to L.A. but still kept an apartment in New York, I was a monthly traveler on United Flight 8. United Flight 8 departs LAX at 8 in the morning, seven days a week, and arrives at JFK at 4:16 in the afternoon. I am partial to the morning flight because everyone else in L.A. takes the redeye, which means the morning flight is always empty and if you fly coach (which I do) you are practically guaranteed three seats for the price of one. Now, because the plane is empty, Flight 8's not the best for star-gazing, but I have noticed that certain celebrity types (Alex Trebek, Monica Lewinsky) enjoy the morning flight as much as I do (probably more — they fly business class). No great shakes. Nothing special. But wait — don't turn the page. One morning I saw her:
Julianne Moore, looking gorgeous.
And not just Julianne Moore. Julianne Moore and her boyfriend — who is gorgeous. Julianne Moore and her boyfriend and their son — who is gorgeous. Julianne Moore and her boyfriend and their son and their nanny — who's a dead ringer for Alanis Morissette.
And that's when I realized, with the same sort of spine-tingling, palm-sweating, face-flushing epiphanic conviction that I'm told accompanies the best and most orgiastic of conversion experiences, that I could forget John Malkovich. I wanted — I want — to be Julianne Moore.
I want to be arthouse Julianne (think Safe and Vanya on 42nd Street). I want to be Altman Julianne (Short Cuts, Cookie's Fortune). I want to be Anderson Julianne (Boogie Nights, if not Magnolia) and blockbuster Julianne (The Lost World: Jurassic Park) and Coen Brothers Julianne (The Big Lebowski) and even Jodie Foster/Clarice Julianne (though this last may have a good deal to do with the vestiges of my wanting to be Jodie Foster, circa Stealing Home). I want to be all these Juliannes (even, sometimes, the As The World Turns and I'll Take Manhattan Juliannes) not just because she's so good at being all these Juliannes but because she's managed to be all these Juliannes in the first place. In her more than 20-year career, she's proven herself infinitely adaptable, and, unlike most actresses, enduring. She's released 18 films since 1997. This year, at the age of 40, when most actresses of her age are begging for work, she'll be seen in five films: Hannibal; Ivan Reitman's comedy Evolution; Bart Freundlich's World Traveler; The Shipping News (from Annie Proulx's book); and The Hours (from the novel by Michael Cunningham). Career-wise, she is everything that any sort of working or struggling-to-work artist ought to want to be: a constant but always surprising talent, serious without ever taking herself too seriously.
But I don't just want a career like Julianne's — I want her personal life, too. For instance: Julianne Moore lives in a $900,000 loft in the West Village with her (younger) boyfriend, Mr. Freundlich, and their three-year-old son Caleb. I like every part of that sentence. I like the idea of a West Village loft and having $900,000 to spend on it. I like the idea of a boyfriend named Bart, and while I'm not all that comfortable with the idea of living with anybody, boyfriend or not, at least Julianne's live-in lover's got a cool name. Even more, I like that though Bart's the father of Julianne's child, he's not Julianne's husband. (I'm not so comfortable with husbands.) OK, so I'm not sure I'm personally all that into the idea of a son, but I like that Julianne waited until she was 36 to have one — at the very least, waiting until I'm 36 gives me plenty of time to come around.
But though I covet her career and, to an extraordinary degree, envy her domestic bliss, there's more to the Julianne Moore mystique than that. She's not just a well-respected actress and a happy, homeowning Mom — lately, I've noticed she's achieved Style Maven status, too.
For instance, a few months ago, she was featured in the Style & Entertaining section of The New York Times, as a guest at a dinner party where most of the recorded conversation was about a Christian Liagre sofa and the latest "top-secret Richard Meier project." ("Wiessenhof is the inspiration," the host explained.) This month, she's on the cover of Vanity Fair; inside, she's posed on an iconic red Eames plywood lounge chair. But here's the kicker: not so long ago, I read a long profile of the actress in which the reporter spent paragraph upon paragraph waxing ecstatic about the furnishings in Julianne's Los Angeles home. The bed was of particular note. It was a platform bed with a curved, ribbed, George Nelson-esque headboard the likes of which, according to the reporter, had never before and would never again be seen anywhere else on earth. Apparently, this was the bed to end all beds. The reporter couldn't help herself — she had to ask. Where did Julianne find such a bed? Julianne's response prompted her interviewer to write: "Julianne Moore is the sort of woman who sees things in Ikea that are invisible to the rest of us."
So the bar is set. How can we achieve bliss? How can we become Julianne Moore?
One: We can fashion families out of independent, headstrong people, and find homes large and sturdy enough to contain them. Two: We can hang things on the walls. We can shop early, we can shop often, we can shop eternal for that elusive, perfect piece. Finally, we can create for ourselves — I can create for myself, the girl who would be Julianne Moore — the sort of far-flung and abiding career that is difficult to define but impossible to discount. Even at Ikea prices.
