The violet eyes were real. So was the talent — a volcanic emotional instrument that the beauty made easy to overlook, until Mike Nichols put a camera six inches from her face and she gave the most devastating performance of 1966. She was also the first major Hollywood star to raise money for AIDS research, when the cause had no other advocates.
Portrait · Elizabeth Taylor
Born Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor on February 27, 1932, in Hampstead, London — the daughter of an American art dealer and a former stage actress, both American citizens. The family returned to California at the outbreak of WWII; Elizabeth was seven. MGM signed her at nine. She appeared in Lassie Come Home at ten and National Velvet at twelve, giving a performance of unsettling maturity in the latter that made her a star before adolescence.
The transition from child star to adult actress — the journey most fail to complete — she accomplished with something approaching ease. Montgomery Clift's influence during the filming of A Place in the Sun (1951) introduced her to a more interior style of acting; their chemistry produced one of Hollywood's great screen romances. George Stevens understood what the camera was seeing and let it see it.
Four Oscar nominations before Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf — for Raintree County, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly Last Summer, and Butterfield 8 — established the pattern: the Academy acknowledged her repeatedly but seemed reluctant to commit. Her first win, for Butterfield 8 (1961), was widely considered a sympathy vote following her near-death from pneumonia. Her second win, for Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966) — Martha, the barnstorming intellectual drunk who strips every pretension from her husband and herself — was not.
In 1985 she became the first major Hollywood figure to publicly advocate for AIDS research and fundraising, when the disease was stigmatised and the entertainment industry was largely silent. She raised hundreds of millions for the cause over the following decades. She died on March 23, 2011, aged seventy-nine, from congestive heart failure.
Taylor aged herself physically for the role — convincingly, at thirty-three — and then gave a performance of such comprehensive emotional truth that the physical transformation became almost irrelevant. Martha is the most technically demanding role she ever played and the one that proved the beauty was not the instrument but the carrier. Nichols put the camera six inches from her face and she never blinked.
Stevens' close-ups of Taylor — which Stevens called the most photogenic face he had ever filmed — were not mere beauty worship but the documentation of a genuine emotional instrument being used. Her Angela is both the dream and the trap, and she understands both functions. The chemistry with Clift is the most natural romantic heat in 1950s American cinema.
Catherine's extended monologue — recounting what she witnessed — is the film's climax and Taylor's finest scene before Virginia Woolf: a sustained performance of mounting horror that requires her to hold an audience through pure vocal and physical control. Katharine Hepburn later said Taylor gave the performance that year's Oscar should have recognised.
Maggie the Cat's desire is not decorative but structural — the film's entire tension runs through her body and her voice — and Taylor sustains it for two hours with unwavering physical presence. The scene in which she confronts Newman's Brick in their bedroom is the most charged single scene in 1950s American cinema.
I've been through it all, baby. I'm Mother Courage. I'll be here after everyone else is gone.
Elizabeth Taylor's legacy is threefold: the acting, the beauty, and the advocacy — and the most enduring of these is the one least associated with her name. Her decision in 1985 to stand publicly for AIDS research, when the cause had no other advocates of her visibility, saved lives that cannot be counted. The Jean Hersholt Award recognised it; the work's scale exceeded any award.
Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf is her artistic monument — a performance that demolished the critical tendency to confuse the instrument with the musician. The beauty was not the talent; the beauty was the thing the talent used. Mike Nichols understood this from the first day of production. The film is the documentation of his understanding and her confirmation of it.