She didn’t so much enter the restaurant as erupt into it, a fast-burning blaze of psychic exasperation that seemed to set the silverware rattling.
Glenda Jackson was five minutes late for our meeting, and she looked ferociously disgusted with herself, with the universe, with the “bloody” London transit system and, most likely, with the prospect of having to talk about herself.
Such was my first in-the-flesh encounter with Jackson, who died Thursday at the age of 87 and who had seared herself into my teenage consciousness decades earlier as an uncompromisingly modern, sui generis movie star.
Waiting for her five years ago in the restaurant of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, I had been prepared to be awed, intimidated, even terrified.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how unnervingly energizing the presence of this 81-year-old woman would be.
Persons:
Glenda Jackson, Jackson, seared, Edward Albee’s “, Ken Russell’s “, ”, John Schlesinger’s, —
Organizations:
Broadway
Locations:
London, Trafalgar