(John Lahr’s article appeared in the New Yorker, 9/21; via Pam Green.)
One day in mid-March, with patches of snow still mottling Brooklyn’s side streets, I went to meet Julianne Moore on the set of “Maggie’s Plan,” a comedy written and directed by Rebecca Miller, in a town house on Vanderbilt Avenue. Arriving exactly on time for the 8 a.m. call, I picked my way past gaffers and gofers slouched on the stoop, working their phones and sucking on their morning Starbucks. Inside, Moore was already shooting a scene in the farmhouse kitchen, which was sealed from view by a wall of cables, cameras, and technicians. In the crepuscular hubbub, Rachael Horovitz, one of the film’s producers, introduced herself and ushered me downstairs to a basement bedroom, where the production team was hunched around a video monitor wedged among ballet trophies, karate belts, and a turquoise-and-pink four-poster canopy bed.
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