In the past decade, Moss has become a kind of muse to Alex Ross Perry. They’re either being taken away or stolen. She told me, giggling, “I can’t tell you how many children I’ve lost in roles. In 2020, she starred in Leigh Whannell’s “The Invisible Man,” which recast the H. G. Wells novel as the story of a woman terrorized by her abusive tech-mogul ex, who uses his invisibility suit to stalk her. She played a woman stabbed in the neck by her own doppelgänger, in Jordan Peele’s “Us,” and a demonic version of the writer Shirley Jackson, in Josephine Decker’s “Shirley.” Many of her roles deal with violence against women. Moss won her first Emmy for the role.Īt the same time, she has built up an idiosyncratic film résumé, choosing projects that reflect her penchant for dark, even feral characters. Women protesting abortion rollbacks in bonnets and red robes is now a staple of American activism. (Moss received six Emmy nominations.) Before “Mad Men” was over, she starred in Jane Campion and Gerard Lee’s limited series, “Top of the Lake,” a forerunner of such highbrow whodunnits as “Mare of Easttown.” Then came “The Handmaid’s Tale.” If “The West Wing” was liberal America’s alternative to the Bush Administration, “The Handmaid’s Tale,” which premièred in the spring of 2017, midway between Trump’s Inauguration and #MeToo, was timed for the Resistance. But as the show went on-and Peggy morphed from mousy secretary into tart copywriting whiz-she became its stealth heroine, pointing the way to TV’s more female-centric next phase.
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At twenty-three, she was cast as Peggy Olson on “Mad Men,” which starred Jon Hamm as the adman Don Draper, part of a wave of prestige cable series centered on male antiheroes. At seventeen, she began playing the President’s daughter on “The West Wing,” perhaps the high-water mark of turn-of-the-millennium network drama. Moss, who was raised in the Church of Scientology, is one of the most unconventional stars of her generation, and her career traces the trajectory of the past quarter century of television. Alex Ross Perry, who directed her in three independent films, described her talent for “looking into the darkness and coming back with a bit of a glint in her eye.” Directors like to shoot her in lingering closeups, her knotty, expressive face going blank with detachment or flashing with wildness, her eyes staring down her beaky nose like a pair of determined headlights. Her characters are often poised at the crossroads of meekness and ferocity. On camera, though, Moss has an almost alien self-possession, channelling extreme states of trauma, rage, fear, or savagery. A Los Angeles native, she deployed the occasional Valley-girl “Totally!” Everyone calls her Lizzie.
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She snapped gum, cracked jokes, and showed me photographs of her two tangerine cats, Lucy and Ethel. “The Handmaid’s Tale” may be relentlessly gruesome, but Moss’s off-screen presence is as light as tulle. Moss had freshly dyed blond hair and wore a T-shirt that read “Liberté! Egalité! Maternité!” At thirty-nine, she has worked on television sets for more than three decades, and she projects a jaunty professionalism. The day had been reserved for camera tests, with the crew sorting out such details as the exact shade of red that June’s bloody handprint should leave on a car window. Moss was vetting the corpse in her role as the director of the first two episodes of the season she began directing in Season 4, and she is also an executive producer. “Anyone want a charcuterie plate?” she said, laughing. Moss inspected its exposed shinbones, mangled wrists, and clawed-up chest. The nude silicone body, wheeled out on a metal tray, was his. By Season 5, for which Moss was in preproduction, June has fled to Canada and, along with a pack of former Handmaids, pummelled Fred into oblivion. The first season, hewing to Atwood’s book, introduced June’s life as Offred, renamed to mark her ownership by Commander Fred Waterford, played by Joseph Fiennes.
The series, based on Margaret Atwood’s 1985 novel, imagines a repressive theocracy that has overthrown the United States and forced women into regimented roles, including Handmaids, who are ceremonially raped and impregnated by their Commanders.
It was January, and Moss was on the Toronto set of “ The Handmaid’s Tale,” the Hulu series on which she plays June, an escapee from a patriarchal dystopia known as Gilead. “Wowzers,” Elisabeth Moss said, peering down at a bloodied corpse made of silicone. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.