The Assam-born actress who became the definitive face of 1960s British cinema — the natural, unguarded quality that John Schlesinger found in Billy Liar and made famous in Darling, the Lara of Doctor Zhivago, the Mrs. Miller of Altman's Western, and at sixty-seven, in Away from Her, the most emotionally precise portrait of early dementia that film has produced. Her career chose quality over quantity and was the better for it.
Portrait · Julie Christie
Born Julie Frances Christie on April 14, 1940, in Chabua, Assam, British India — the daughter of a tea plantation manager, educated in England from the age of eight, trained at the Central School of Speech and Drama in London. She worked in British television and theatre before John Schlesinger cast her in Billy Liar (1963), in which her few minutes on screen as Liz — the free-spirited young woman who briefly makes Tom Courtenay's fantasist believe escape is possible — generated more electricity than the rest of the film, and established the quality that would define her career: the sense that she had arrived from somewhere more interesting and was only passing through.
Schlesinger's Darling (1965) — Christie as Diana Scott, the beautiful opportunist who moves through a succession of men and careers without ever finding anything worth staying for — won her the Academy Award at twenty-five and made her the defining face of Swinging London: the era's aesthetic embodied in a person who saw through it completely. David Lean's Doctor Zhivago (1965), released the same year, gave her Lara — the role the world saw and remembered as warmth — but the performance of Diana Scott is the more difficult and the more honest achievement.
Robert Altman's McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971) — Christie as Constance Miller, the opium-addicted madam who is the shrewdest business intelligence in a frontier town — is the American revisionist Western's finest female performance: a woman whose competence is absolute and whose self-protection is the only form of dignity the world she inhabits allows. Warren Beatty was her partner on and off screen for years; the professional collaboration produced their best individual work.
Sarah Polley's Away from Her (2006) — Christie as Fiona, the woman whose early Alzheimer's is dissolving her marriage from the inside out — gave her a fourth Oscar nomination at sixty-seven: the most complete dramatic performance of her career and the clearest evidence that the quality she had always had — the naturalism that looked like she wasn't performing — was not a function of youth but of the instrument itself. She continues to act selectively, lives in Wales, and is an outspoken political activist.
Diana Scott's tragedy — the woman who can read every situation she enters, who has the intelligence and the beauty to get anything she wants, and who cannot find anything she wants enough to stay for — is played by Christie with a naturalism that makes the character's emptiness feel like an environment rather than a moral position. The performance requires her to be simultaneously the most attractive and the least sympathetic person in every scene, and to make those qualities feel like expressions of the same characteristic rather than contradictions.
Mrs. Miller's quality — the competence that is the only thing between her and the world's indifference, the opium that is the only thing between her and the competence's cost — is played by Christie as a specific, fully inhabited psychology rather than a type. Her final scene — Constance in the opium den while the town burns, physically present and psychologically elsewhere — is the film's most honest image: the woman who has been the only clear-eyed person in the story choosing, at its crisis, not to watch its conclusion.
Fiona's forgetting — the way the disease is removing not just memory but the specific texture of a relationship, replacing a husband with a stranger who loves her without the context that made the love what it was — is played by Christie with a precision that the role's difficulty makes remarkable: she must simultaneously be present and absent, recognisable and lost, which requires the actor to perform the dissolution of the self from the inside. She received the nomination at sixty-seven; the performance is the argument that the instrument had not diminished but deepened.
Lara's quality is the opposite of Diana Scott's — the woman who is fully invested in everything she encounters, who loves completely and loses completely and survives by the force of that completeness — and Christie plays the emotional availability that Lean required without losing the specificity that made Diana Scott more than a type. The two films in the same year — Darling and Doctor Zhivago — constitute the fullest possible statement of her range, made before she was twenty-six.
I've done quite well but I hate the whole side of the business that's about promoting yourself. The work is what interests me.
Julie Christie's legacy is the four decades between the first and fourth nomination — Darling at twenty-five and Away from Her at sixty-seven — and the confirmation that the quality which made Diana Scott the most honest portrait of the Sixties was the same quality that made Fiona's forgetting the most emotionally precise portrait of Alzheimer's in cinema. The instrument didn't change; the material got harder, and the instrument was equal to it.
She lives in Wales and works selectively and is an outspoken activist on political causes. The selective career — the refusal to take roles that didn't interest her regardless of commercial consequence — produced a filmography of unusual consistency and a legacy of unusual dignity: the work that exists is almost all worth watching, which is more than most four-decade careers can claim.