Dear Emma Thompson,
I must admit I’m not entirely sure where to start. In different iterations of this letter I started with expressing a hope that if it was lucky enough to be seen by you, that you might respond but, at the end of the day, I really just hope that this letter finds you…and finds your eyes.
I grew up watching movies with my mother and father, although never together. With my dad we’d go to the theater to see a film on the weekend and with my mother we’d usually pick one out from the local video store. That’s how it went for a while. Watching recorded cassette tapes, a two-for-one deal at “Video Isle” or “Rain City” (Seattle locales) and then a trip to the cinema.
One of the first movies I can remember watching was the recorded cassette of Much Ado About Nothing. I was too young to know everything that was going on, but as I got older I began to understand the story more, coupled with classroom introductions to Shakespeare. In any case, I knew from the very beginning that you were electric. I wondered how someone could capture an entire screen, be so graceful one moment and hilarious the next. There was a grasp of language, an ease, and a familiarity that not only captivated my mother and I, but made us inch closer and closer to the action you were involved in. We could see, without hesitation, that your ability to perform, act, and live was so high that you could play and have fun and bend the world around you. During every scene with Benedick there was an energy that two masters wielding only the most powerful skill could exhibit. And as I’m sure you can attest, the play—the film, always worked. It was a movie that my mother and I watched often and I think one of my favorite parts about the experience was taking the occasional moment to glance at my mother, who was so immersed in your performance. I watched her watch you. Watched the way you could make her laugh (my mom’s laugh is as contagious as they come). Watched the way you could turn her severe—absolutely engaged and distressed during times of wrong and woe. Watched the way you could screw her face up and make her cry. I don’t think I’d ever seen an actor have that type of impact on her before. I wonder if she saw some of herself in you, related some of her experience, energy, and charm to the magic you exhibited moment to moment.
Down the road, the next piece we were drawn to was, of course (as I imagine you tire of hearing it), Love Actually. I know, I know, I know you’ve been told this time and time again. In a recent interview I learned that Kit Harrington also shared the sentiments that your scene in the bedroom after she realizes her husband is cheating on her could very well be the holy grail of acting. Is it a couple of minutes? Is it a few or several? The truth is I don’t think any of us know for sure because you made time stop. We listen to Joni Mitchell singing and we watch you experience heartbreak and then we experience heartbreak watching you. It is painful. It is breathtaking. I think you must shrug it off at a certain point when people come up to you and express such admiration for a small piece in the grand scheme of your entire career, but I’m telling you, I don’t think there are many actors that have ever touched that reality before. We love and hate that scene. You wreck my mom during that scene. You wreck me during that scene. Shit, you wreck me having to watch my mom go through watching that scene. You wreck us all. You’ve said that it’s the fact that she tries to cover it up, keep it together and move on with the night that really sticks out to you. I agree. When I watch it again and again I am always drawn to your initial stillness. I am drawn to the detail of trying to tidy up the bed. Watching you experience the most powerful battle inside.
Then there is Wit. Oh my god. Wit may very well be one of the hardest movies I’ve ever seen. There is no letting up. None. Truthfully, speaking about your performance in that film is as difficult as it is to watch it. To witness someone go through the agony of cancer. Speak right to the screen. Talk directly to you while it’s happening. It is impossible to look away. It’s terrifying. Again, I watched this movie with my mother. And again, I had the very uncomfortable experience of watching my mom navigate such deep levels of pain through your performance. I don’t think any scene hurts my mother more than when the teacher accompanies you in the hospital and reads to you from “Runaway Bunny.” It’s hard to process thought during that scene and after…
I don’t know. There is this divine connection between you and my mother. Somehow you two are intractably linked through your performances and there is this way that you pull at something within my mom that makes her very vulnerable. It is beautiful. It is also very scary. My mom is the strongest person that I know. Something in the way that you display humanity grabs at her like very few things do. Just like my mother you are as one of one as it gets and I must thank you.
Thank you for being a Dame and a Badass. Thank you for never being afraid to speak up on issues in the world and within the industry (most recently, the Culture Blast podcast). Thank you for being a role model to women and to men. Thank you for being the only person ever to win an acting and writing Oscar. Thank you for Angels in America.
Thank you for being here on this earth and speaking to my mother through your beauty and your performances.
One day, I hope the two of you have a chance to meet.
Peace and blessings be upon you. You deserve all of your flowers and more.