Julieta Almeida Rodrigues

 

April 16, 2024

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/03/magazine/isabella-rossellini-interview.html

How to Grow Old Like Isabella Rossellini

"How do I fulfill the rest of my life? That question came to me very clearly at 45, and I didn't have an answer."

By Lulu Garcia-Navarro
March 3, 2024
If you go to Isabella Rossellini's Instagram page — and I recommend you do — you will see the 71-year-old actress/director/model/farmer wearing a giant woolly hat and vest, beaming with joy in the sunshine at her farm on Long Island. Another photo shows her staring off into the distance, her face proudly unretouched. Scrolling through, I often wonder how Rossellini is so comfortable in her own skin at an age when many women struggle in theirs.

Rossellini's early life was, in some ways, defined by other people's fame. She looks strikingly like her mother, the Swedish Hollywood star Ingrid Bergman. Her father, the director Roberto Rossellini, was a giant of Italian cinema. She was married to Martin Scorsese, and another partner, David Lynch, famously directed her in the 1986 film "Blue Velvet." But she also built her own interesting and varied career, becoming one of the most recognizable models in the world as the face of Lancôme until, in her 40s, the beauty brand dumped her for being too old. Rossellini was suddenly faced with a question, she told me, that she's still working through today: "Who am I, and how do I fulfill the rest of my life?"

The short answer is that she wrote books, went back to school, bought a farm, learned to be single, got rehired by Lancôme and kept acting. In the film "La Chimera," directed by the Italian filmmaker Alice Rohrwacher and opening in theaters on March 29, Rossellini plays a Tuscan matriarch who's aging with a lot less equanimity than Isabella herself. (She also has a small part in the new film "Spaceman," starring Adam Sandler.) Rossellini just started "a little experiment with sheep" at her farm, partnering with design schools to help students better understand wool, and describes herself as diligently following whatever amuses her. "I just play," she says. "I'm playful. And I became increasingly more playful with age."

 

I will confess that I have been slightly obsessing over your farm, where you are right now. It's clearly both a refuge and also hard work. Did you always think this is what you'd be doing in your 70s? Because when I dream of my 70s, I'm not working quite as hard as you are. Well, you know, I say you need two ingredients to open a farm: optimism and ignorance. Optimism is like: Oh, it's a piece of a dream, wouldn't it be great to have it? Sure, I can do a farm! And ignorance is how hard it is — how hard it is workwise, but also to make it financially viable. All these little farms in the Hudson Valley or in Long Island, we are all struggling. How do you make it? Yet it's such a contribution to the community, and it opened up so many possibilities and fills my mind with wonder, and I have to study hard to understand how to run it well.

What is it about the hard work that you find so compelling? There are little farms that don't exist anymore, because there's no money and it's a lot of work. So why do it? It started with my love for animals. I always had dogs and cats, and then my father, when I was 14 years old, gave me Konrad Lorenz's book "King Solomon's Ring." Lorenz is a founder of the science of ethology — the science of animal behavior — and I read that book. It was like an illumination. This is what I want to do. And when I became older and there was less work as a model and as an actress and my children were grown up, I thought, Well, maybe I'll go back to school and study ethology. And so in my 60s, I signed up.

I think I've seen you describe the farm as a kind of matriarchy. In fact, it's called Mama Farm. What draws you to female spaces at this stage in your life? There are a lot of women farmers. I took a seminar on shepherding, because I wanted to understand about sheep, and it was eight different shepherds talking about their experience, and six of them were women. I was very surprised. You know, Alice Rohrwacher, the fantastic film director, she's the daughter of a beekeeper. She lives in the country, and she said something very touching to me. I went to visit her in the country where she was editing the film, and like every director she was very worried about Is the film going to be accepted? Is it going to be successful? And she said to me something a little bit naïve, but full of wisdom. She said: I have my vegetable garden, and if anything goes bad and the film is not successful and I can never make another film again, I can still survive. I have my garden. I know how to farm. I always tell my daughter, the first thing you have to learn is to farm because then you're independent.

 

You are talking about how women are self-sufficient, and I was reading your autobiography. It was delightful. But it was published in 1997. You were around 45 years old, and your memoir ends at this moment of profound change for you. It was kind of like this cliffhanger: You had been the face of Lancôme for so long, and then they ended your contract because they said you were too old. You had two young children at the time. You've spoken a lot about the instability of that period. But I'm wondering now, looking back, can you see it as the start of some exciting changes in your life? Absolutely. I worked with Lancôme for 15 years. Then I was let go for 20 years. And now I've worked again with them for 10 years. And one of the executives said to me: Oh, we should have never let you go. You should have stayed with us all the time. And I said: No. Having this big contract is a little bit like winning the lottery. You're very lucky. But you never really can measure, Can I make it in my life? If I didn't have Lancôme, can I make it? Can I support my two children? And yes, I can. I went back to university. I made my own films. And I'm financially independent.

 

One of the things that was striking to me about how you grew up is that there was a lot of financial instability. It's incredible, because my parents, you know, my mom was Ingrid Bergman, my father, Roberto Rossellini, they were a very known actress and filmmaker. And sometimes people think that with fame comes money. But it doesn't. My father was always an experimental filmmaker, he was always very rigorous. He was an influential filmmaker, but he was never a box-office success.
People would come and repossess things from your house! So I'm wondering, did losing your main source of income with Lancôme at that moment bring back childhood fears? The opposite! I did see when I was a little girl things confiscated from our house to pay my father's debts. But three days later, the house was empty and I could ride my bike in my apartment. And I was very pleased about that. And then we continue to work, and we continue to live, and you can redesign your life. And I think a lot of people go through that. It strengthened me.

 
So you felt that you were prepared for that moment, actually? I don't know that I was prepared for Lancôme to let me go, because we were so successful that I took it for granted. At the time Lancôme said that women dream to be young and that advertisements for perfume and cosmetics are all about seduction, so that idea is associated with a younger woman, not a woman in her 40s. And advertising is about a dream. It's not about reality. Even if there were a lot of clients of Lancôme that were in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, they gave me that rationale. And I was sad, because I was very successful. I kind of invented the work of a spokesperson. It didn't exist. Be beautiful and shut up: That was the job of a model. And I thought it was thanks to my ability to talk to the press, or be gracious in public appearances, talking to the clients, that there was an ability. It wasn't just my youth, or my age, but it was a real skill. And that was not recognized. And that's what hurt.
 
Was there something that helped you decide how to move forward? I wrote that book, my biography. It was called "Some of Me," because I was 45.

You still had a future. That's right. The second half. But it did help, and also I found in the book my voice — that it is slightly surreal, comical, which became quite evident when I became a director. It is the same voice.
So you're writing your book, and then you end up going back to school. What was it like to sort of put your mind first in this period? You know, I didn't have a master plan. I just followed my curiosity diligently: getting up early and finding time to really study or to write. So I was diligent, like the good girl that we are taught to be. But, you know, I'm curious about all the questions you are asking me. Because I have a feeling it has to do with women. We are asking, How do we find our voice? And I feel in your question, the question to me, but it's a question that you ask yourself: How do I fully realize myself?

It's a question so many women, especially as we move on in life and the trappings of what we were when we were younger — we're identified as mothers or partners or someone who is sexually desirable — falls away, not maybe in importance, but it transforms. And so you seem to have led a successful life, and I'm wondering how you did it. This is very interesting. I found that question in Alice's work, but also in a lot of women's work, especially this year. There were so many women directors, from the greatest, Greta Gerwig. I mean, only a woman could have made that film about Barbie the way she did. It couldn't have been made by a man. Often feminism or a political stance lacks a sense of humor. And she brought in the sense of humor, that voice, with irony and intelligence, but also this quest: Who are we? Because we have such a destined role, biological role, of being the wife, the mother. I'm an ethologist. Most animals do not go through menopause, but women do, and some whales do. And there is a hypothesis called the "grandmother hypothesis," saying why these species live half of their life not being fertile. And probably it evolved because we have played a very important role in society. In the society of whales — I'm looking at whales thinking there is a parallel to me and my menopause [laughs], but the whales that have grandmothers, they are more successful in surviving because there is an extra pair of eyes, and there is the experience. And I wonder if it is the same thing for us. So much of who we are when we are young is determined by our fertility. Are we going to have children? And then we breastfeed them, we have to be there, and that conditions a lot of our life. But then once they go to college or move on, the question becomes: Who am I? How do I fulfill the rest of my life, from 45 on? That question came to me very clearly at 45, and I didn't have an answer. I still don't have an answer.

 

You are unpartnered, and this is actually more common for women as we get older. We're increasingly unpartnered, increasingly finding support and love with friends and other types of relationships. That seems to be a path that you followed. Yes. Charles Darwin wondered why altruism came about. If evolution is the survival of the fittest, why would altruism live? And Charles Darwin wondered if altruism was an extension of maternal love. The mothers have the babies, they have to breastfeed them, they protect them, and then there's also cooperation among mothers. And that is the beginning of altruism and communal work. Nowadays in my field of science, ethology, there is a lot of discussion about the survival of the friendliest. How do you create cooperation? And I think that's very much the domain of women.

But why did you decide not to have a partner? It's not that I decided not to have a partner. I don't have a partner, and it happened. It happened step by step. I always had somebody. And my therapist said, Have you ever tried to be alone for six months? And I thought, Well, yeah, that's strange, I've never done that. I always had somebody, or somebody that was promising. So I might have been alone for a few months, but there was somebody that I knew was going to come.

What age was this? When you finally were alone? I was in my 40s. My son was little, and Lancôme was gone. And so I said, OK, I'll try six months. And it was a great serenity, I have to say. And so what was for me a six-month experiment to be alone became a year, two years, and then it extended to become 25 years. I didn't want it, and sometimes I feel like it would be nice to have a partner. There are certain things I don't do because I don't have a partner.

Like what? Like traveling. Like saying: Oh, my, I've never been to India. Let's take a trip to India. You can still do it nowadays, I've learned. You can go with a group, but it's not the same. Or going to parties. Going to parties is the worst. Entering a party by yourself is the worst, because the most aggressive, boring person, they isolate you and talk, talk, talk, talk. It's so nice to go with somebody. So I don't socialize that way because I don't know how to go to parties by myself. There are certain things that you regret. You regret the camaraderie — not regret, miss the camaraderie. But it didn't happen. So it's not a choice. It just didn't happen.

I look at your Instagram. It's full of joy. It's full of this sense of just the possibility of living your life. Exactly. Being joyful and following things that are joyful, following what is amusing you — it's a very simple ingredient, and I'm doing it. So I don't understand what you're digging for. I don't live my life to be a role model to anybody. I live my life the best I can. Can I say something to you?

Please. I say to you as an older woman and a wise woman: You're asking me questions about men, as men are who is giving us our identity. They don't. They do and they don't. There are many other things that can give you identity: knowledge, children, friendship, curiosity. And we have been limited to wanting to have the men's gaze to define who we are. It's not necessary.

I could not agree with you more, so I hope I haven't offended you by asking about it. No, it's funny because when I was young, they always asked me, Who was your boyfriend? Whenever I gave an interview to promote films, it was always the question of who is the boyfriend. Now they don't ask me. I feel young!

 
There you go! We can continue to talk about beautiful things in life, including men, but not in the sense that if you don't have a man. …

Well, I watched the film that you wrote, "My Dad Is 100 Years Old," which you made in 2005 to commemorate the centenary of your father's birth. And the thing it made me think about is how to grapple with legacy. You lamented in the film that the way your dad saw his craft had been forgotten. And it made me wonder, What does legacy actually mean? Like, what does that word mean to you? It really means nothing. It means I'm going to die. I mean, if you intend by "legacy" a reputation of a person that lives and wants to be remembered, I never had that. And only in America, I have to say, have I heard that question. Because when you're dead, you're dead. If you're lucky, your children remember you. I remember my mom one day — she was in the theater. It was the last performance. And when it was over I was waiting for her, and she wasn't showing up. So I went back to the theater, and I saw her alone onstage. Everybody was gone, and she was so sad. And I said, Why, what happened? And she said: You know, you do a play and all these talents work together, and then it's finished, and it all goes away. Film at least lasts. But film doesn't last. Films deteriorate, and they have to be restored. And even if they are restored, there is no memory. And so when I thought that my parents would be remembered, instead, there was a slow forgetting. And that was really heartbreaking in a way. And that's what I wanted to capture in the film.

Earlier you were a little exasperated when you sensed me trying to make meaning out of your life or to sort of glean things from the way that you lived. But you seem to be in a place where your own desires and dreams are what are most important. I think that's what is called old age. You know, they all talk about wrinkles, but talk about the freedom that comes with old age. When you're young, there is a lot of expectation. You have to make a career; you have to prove that you can be financially independent, you can raise your children, you're successfully married — there are so many things that you have to prove. But then as you become older, you just are lucky to be alive and healthy. And then you start saying: Well, what do I want? Let me do what I want. I mean, short of hurting anybody. I buy chickens. I play with wool. I play with the heritage breed of sheep. I go back to university and take a course on ornithology. There is a great serenity. You have to make money. I have a pension, and you know, I've been lucky, so hopefully I will not be a burden to anyone. And that's it. I'm ready for the end. Somebody called me the other day and said, We're doing a podcast called "The Third Act," or "The Last Act."

Oh, no. I said, OK, I'd like to do it, but who knows? It may not be the last act! I might come back as a ghost. Be careful.