Scholar Northrop Frye opined that the four seasons correspond to the four major genres: tragedy, comedy, satire, romance. In Inside Story, the late Martin Amis workshops Frye’s suggestion through the prismatic ubiquity of William Shakespeare and grand-scale murderers like Joseph Stalin and Genghis Khan.

Amis goes:
“Satire is winter, wintry, bitter; the frost has its teeth fast in the ground.
Romance is summer, a time of freedom and adventure, and dream-strange possibilities.
Comedy is spring, the burgeoning of the flora, the Whitsun weddings, the maypole.
Tragedy is autumn, the sere, the yellow leaf…”

Uma Thurman is an artist, advocate, and enthusiast who was born in Boston and has acted in over 50 films and several series. She has filled meaningful space in each respective genre, often numerous times. Thurman’s canon is defined by eerie allure met with head-scratching accessibility, something altogether un-pinnable though powerful, punctuated over time by her role as one of the greatest action figures in cinematic history (The Bride, of course, in Kill Bill Vols. 1 and 2).

It’s an arraying personal journey that is perhaps, at least here in the Fleeting Twilight Issue—as the horizon’s brazen orange marbles into bruised plums and indigoes and we cast our view to what’s next—best navigable in consideration of Frye’s seasons. You see, Thurman’s arc has seen its share of flora and adventure, but also its share of stubborn, bitter jaw lock, burrowed teeth—continually entering a new phase, albeit atmospherically familiar. 

The bitter: for winter comes first.
Thurman is not afraid of “dark” subject matter. There are films in her output that deal with brutalist sex addiction and marital collapse, drug use, abuse, and serial murder (e.g. Jennifer 8 (1992), Pulp Fiction (1994), Down a Dark Hall (2018), some of which have toed into wintry satire (The Producers (2005)) and others of which have courted controversy.

This summer, she’ll join the beloved blood splatter franchise Dexter for Dexter: Resurrection as Charley, the head of security for a mysterious billionaire, to which she remarks it was “one of the more fun and positive experiences I’ve had in my whole career. Great team, the cast is fantastic, and the scripts were really smart and fun. If people are Dexter fans, they’re going to love it. I think even if they aren’t, they might become one, because I think it’s very good and a lot of fun.” 

A lot of fun. Cold-blooded murder can be. Let’s briefly consider The House That Jack Built by Lars von Trier, whom Thurman also worked with on the radical and by many standards extreme Nymphomaniac (2013):

Uma is sat next to us. Pine trees. Thickly pebbled asphalt. That foggy wintery stupor at midday in the Pacific Northwest. She’s just encountered a flat tire and a presumed good samaritan (Matt Dillon) has scooped her into his truck and we’re watching her speak and she’s so cavalier and contrarian and pretty and talking to fill space. You want to stop her, warn her, stop the many things that seem to be colliding into one another inside your sternum—but it’s too late. She’s bludgeoned with a tire iron, and the killings will continue.

It’s a short scene, but it reifies Thurman’s ability to drive scene tension to an almost absurd level—much like the film itself—as she jokes, pre-murder, that she could have very well just climbed into a truck with a serial killer.

Off camera, there’s of course all the wintry shit she’s seen. The power, the abuse of power, the dissolution of power. Being pushed too far. Fandom’s ugly side. The freaks and the fickle. Thurman has seen some profound linings of the human interior, and as observed in our conversation below, rather than retreat, she has flipped them into both heavyweight spar bags and quiet considerations—as inquiry, as lessons learned. Onward.

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The flora: for with spring, comedy. And with comedy, abandon.
What’s comical to someone evolves over time, and today, on a Zoom with Thurman, it’s quite endearing that what’s really tickling her ribs at present is her having just planted 50 free trees.

I see it like this: the sun slips behind the apple-flaxen horizon of upstate New York in springtime. Uma Thurman stands with hands on hips. Four dozen freshly planted trees straighten in response, each hoping they don’t disappoint. Some sway with the stubborn physical inequity of pubescent surges. Some avoid eye contact. Some play with sexy, whether that means thinning foliage or acting with more righteous aplomb (turns out it’s a combination of both, sometimes). Other trees cower sheepishly, embarrassed by their overly righteous reaction just moments ago, making like they knew more than the rest.

“It was really a thrill,” Thurman tells me of planting the trees, after I’ve asked her the last time she acted with abandon. “Normally I think about just a few. But like, how about this whole field or yard? I’ve been intrigued by the idea of trying to rewild yards. It’s a whole new thing to think about—to put them to use in other ways.”

In our interview, Thurman and I also briefly discuss the expansive and unknown nature of AI, so it’s particularly ironic when she attempts to silence an incoming call on her mobile phone, and instead gets fed back an AI response on our topic of abandon. We’re being listened to. She reads it to me:

“Self-abandonment could be the root cause of most of our struggles…What you need to know about abandonment issues…Perhaps the reason why so many of us struggle with what we want, get stuck and feel alone, is because we totally abandoned ourselves…”

She laughs for a while, and remarks, “I mean, there we are, right?”

There is tension in the spring—powerful and unwieldy external forces challenging our instincts. For Thurman, she’ll side with her trees and their  imperfections—like us, they’re ripe for rewilding, capable of rebirth, of overcoming being stuck and feeling alone.

The dream-strange possibilities: it’s summer, and it’s gone tomorrow.
“This movie plays with an idea that interacts with people’s dream life,” Thurman tells me about her upcoming project, The Old Guard 2, a time-traveling action film starring Charlize Theron and based on a comic book about immortality and the quest for good and evil when in possession of it.

“There are myths that precede this,” she continues. “Probably the foundation of the comic book—about a small number of immortals moving through mankind, consciously or unconsciously, playing different roles and guiding or altering the course of humanity. The movie plays with the idea that there are forces—angels or not—intervening in world events. That’s part of a lot of people’s fantasy worlds. Obviously, I don’t have any personal belief in that, but if it were true, it’d be cool.”

Thurman uses the word “cool” with range. You can see her wielding it in response to the scripts for other action films she’s done, e.g. dystopian science-fiction effort Gattaca (1997) Batman and Robin (1997) where she played Poison Ivy, and the aforementioned Kill Bill films. You can see it when a top fashion designer presents a customization for the carpet, or when the success or relationships she’s forged peels back unknown worlds.

Thurman thrives in summer, perhaps because she knows it’s fleeting. That’s cool.

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Honey hued: it’s autumn and it’s tragically inclined.
Let’s just say it. Uma Thurman is mesmerizing. Her gander, her gait, the way the lyrical honey drips down her chin in Bel Ami (2012) with Robert Pattinson, her body spilling over the ornate furniture in late 1800s Parisian society, time stopping. How about her ordering a show-stopping whiskey in a blue-collar ale house in Beautiful Girls, as the Chicago lads first meet her, all stammering out explanations of impress and exaggeration. How about with her giant eyes and height and cutesy disposition in The Truth About Cats & Dogs as she scrubs her hands of every available dirtied cell next to Janine Garofollo before giving a turtle an enema? How about how she drinks beer in Hysterical Blindness? Just the angle of that elbow alone.

But today I’m imagining Uma Thurman exercising another form of grace: encountering her 13-year-old daughter. How she’s navigating her onslaught of adolescence, her forthcoming womanhood, with compassion and revere and experience, and an understanding that sometimes, parenting can feel tragic, lined with loss both physical and immaterial, but worth every minute.

So, we’ll talk about curiosity as an engine behind that commitment, and other interpersonal pursuits. We’ll talk about how far off one might be in thinking Uma Thurman “tough,” and the life pursuit of non-reactivity. We’ll thematically cycle through the seasons, and we’ll be reminded about the imperative to keep leaning in.

The priority here is to talk about The Old Guard 2. One of the topics I thought we could spend a little time on is your physical combat training and fight scene preparation.
Well, in the case of Old Guard 2, because I joined the production really at the last minute, I actually didn’t have any training. Whereas with a movie like Kill Bill, I trained for many, many months. I do believe Charlize had a really long prep time—perhaps some other actors as well. But no, I didn’t have that.

What compelled you to the project?
When I watched the first one, I really thought Charlize was doing such a beautiful job advancing herself as an action star in a way that was courageous and beautiful, doing it in a story with metaphor. I mean, it’s an action movie, but it has these underlying metaphors and poetry and relationships. So the idea of stepping in—what’s meant to be the middle piece of a trilogy—and picking up a sword caught my fancy.

After Kill Bill, I didn’t want to just churn out action films because I felt like I’d done one that all really liked. I’ve never stuck to one genre anyway. That’s been both a strength and a shortcoming—that was my motivation. But I stepped into this without time to enjoy the study of martial arts again.

What did you miss about doing combat on screen?
Well, each film is its own unique animal. Things might fall in the same genre, but they’re completely different. I thought the stunt choreography team was really talented. They’re artists. It was nice to see that again. I haven’t worked with a really high-level stunt choreography team in a while. I’ve done dance, I’ve done other things, but not in the action genre. This was some of the finest work you can do in action.

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Honestly, it’s really as creative as a ballet or a storytelling journey. When you watch them create a fight—how they practice, work with doubles, collaborate creatively with the director, with Charlize, with the producers—it’s very much about storytelling. It’s about how a character is expressed through their violence. It’s quite beautiful to see. It’s not unlike a great piece of choreographed modern dance.

And how about the presence of angels in our everyday, which the film explores?
Yes, I think that’s what’s debated. Humankind is seen as so fruitlessly reckless that interactions with them never lead to real betterment. The argument over whether the human race is moving in a positive direction is very debatable. I do believe there’s an arc of progress. Although right now, it looks a bit like the stock market. But I think that gives the film, as an action movie, a feeling to it that has a stronger resonance.

Your character is villainous. What’s it like to be inside someone making life hard for others?
Someone who’s tormented? The character I play is having more of an influence over the narrative than her screen time would suggest. If the story continues, we’ll see more of what she’s like. I like playing complicated characters. She was the first chosen one for something, and she’s certainly given up on the human race. It’s not fully explored yet, but that sense of futility runs stronger in her than in the others.

You mention torment. Do you think villainy is ultimately a byproduct of torment?
I think most dark or bad behavior usually is. It’s reactive. This woman isn’t really a person anymore—she’s been alive for thousands of years. But this psyche, this creature, is living indefinitely. That kind of negative, propulsive reaction is usually the root. As you said earlier, good and bad are completely skewed based on perspective. Now more than ever, maybe. In a world where any voice can outshout another.

We make a lot of noise when we’re confused or lost in the sauce, right?
Sadly, people don’t usually announce “I’m confused,” but they’ll make a lot of noise. They’re usually stricken with righteousness.

Your character is obviously very tough and has been through a lot. Resilience seems to go hand in hand with immortality. But on a broader level, how do you relate to the idea of toughness at this stage in your career?
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been tough. I actually think toughness can undermine what makes someone an actor. I can’t speak for everyone—there are brilliant actors who may feel they’re very tough—but sensitivity, or empathy (another word that’s been cast down lately), is a tool for a performer. Some might use it more than others, but empathy can run counter to toughness. Maybe that’s why it’s being vilified now.

Do you think it’s communication skills that define exemplary stunt choreography?

I think resilience, curiosity, and courage have been more useful tools for me. I’ve been navigating this career since I was a teenager—my whole life. A career in the creative and commercial world of performance. So no, toughness hasn’t been a useful tool. It’s fun to play, though.
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‍Let’s talk about curiosity, because, sometimes it’s razor sharp and we’re living and thriving with curiosity, and other times it can be fairly suppressed or dormant or oppressed. How does Uma Thurman stay curious?
I mean, I just think I have a really active mind—I’m profoundly curious. I mean, the contradictions in life are so, so powerful. I do think—I mean, people have thought this for all of time—but we are living in such an accelerated, fast-paced period of constant transformation, we are losing how to navigate the world around us? I mean, just practically speaking: your new update on your phone. You’re constantly having your tools change.

From the Iron Age, from one age to the other, even in our ancient history, right? Life has been a slow-moving progression between skill sets. But now, it’s from one month to the next, and I think we’re also sitting on the edge of a slope of even faster, accelerated change. I was mulling this over just earlier—I don’t even think some people anticipate what’s ahead. I think even some of the smartest people talking about it acknowledge that it’s unpredictable because the possibilities are so extreme.

Perhaps experts in that space are defined as such because they know it can go rogue.
Yeah, and they’re admitting it. So, even if you’re trying to sort of check in, what does that mean? I think what we’re finding at the end of those questions is: well, it could mean this or this, or this, or this, or this. I feel like the most abused word in circulation right now is this word “uncertainty.” Uncertain, uncertainty. And it’s just being hammered on every topic. If it doesn’t come up in every single article you read about absolutely anything, I would be surprised. So I guess that we’re in the era of uncertainty, and so the answer to your question in a long, rounded way is: be curious, because you need to keep alive the part of the mind to be adaptive.

For those who’ve lost curiosity, is finding it about survival? Is it about a richer life?
I think another nice word, you can call it “adaptive,” right? To be supple, to be prepared for change, so as not to break. I think if someone feels like they’ve lost, if someone feels that they’ve lost curiosity, call a doctor, you know? Because I don’t know what else can help a being live, other than maybe love, and that’s an abstract thing that can come and go, or be nurtured or held or in your heart or mind—it exists all around us. But as far as living goes, adaptability would be the thing to cultivate, because it will help you.

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How might you connect the imperative to adapt to performance or fame?
Let’s see. I mean, those things I’ve had such a long term relationship with—those things are constantly morphing, but they’re not new to me.

How about adaptation in the framework of motherhood. That seems like a constant adaptation?
Well, my youngest is 12, and will be 13 soon, and it is incredible to me that for 27 years I’ve had children under 12 at home. You’ve heard this thing: “children under 12,” right? You’re not supposed to leave a child under 12 unattended. And so, for the first time, I don’t have a child under 12, and I’m feeling like I’ve truly enjoyed my life with my children. It’s not that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it—it’s been my entire adult life.

So I’m thinking a lot about it, and I’m trying to adapt, but it’s super silly stuff. Like, god, I need to start reminding friends of mine that I actually would have dinner. I mean, people just stop asking you to dinner, because you might not be free…

For many, the disappearance of spontaneity with planning as a parent is a massive fear.
I kind of loved it, but it’s a real thing. It’s just so much hassle… even if you do go out: arranging it, and then if you stay out late, you’ll be tired the next day. It’s just this massive thing that becomes a part of your life. And so part of the adaptivity is: ‘wow, after being off the list of people that might invite me out to dinner, I’m ready for game night,’ you know? It’s exciting. I would add that I’m extremely proud of my three children, and I think that they’re just doing it awesomely. So it makes it feel like it was all worth it, too.

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But it’s a big transition nonetheless?
I’m trying to work on the positives, like just being able to put more energy towards your work, and not feeling conflict and guilt. I want to work and just feel good about it. I don’t have to work and feel all messed up in my head about what else I need to be doing. So that’s a really huge positive.

In preparation for this conversation, I came across an interview clip of you some years back, I think, as a fairly new mother, speaking about that, that constant tension, you know, between work and caring for the little one. It’s been an ongoing thing, right? That never stops?
It never stops. And I’m sorry to say, but I do think it’s slightly harder for women, because I think kids hate absent mothers more than they hate absent fathers. I just think the burden is built in. Sure, even if the woman is the breadwinner, or whatever, it’s just hard-wired that people expect more from their mothers. Society expects more from mothers, and children also expect more from their mothers. They’re psyched with one quarter of the attention from their dad, they feel indulged, but if their mother gives them 75% of that attention, she’s terrible. It’s just the way it is. I don’t think it’s gonna change in a rapid succession. Yeah, that doesn’t seem to adapt.

The imbalance is not really moving the curve, however rapid the acceleration we talked about… You talked about empathy earlier as a sort of antidote to toughness?
Empathy is an enemy of toughness. Because I think to be really tough, you have to not be that sensitive to other people. I’ve never met an actually tough person who is that conscious of how that toughness makes other people feel—where it’s weighing them down.

So rare is the tough person who is also kind?
When a tough person is kind, it’s the sweetest thing. Then they really overwhelm you, right? Because if you can win kindness from a really tough person, it’s the ultimate—I don’t know—fool’s gold or something, but it feels really real. I don’t think tough people are incapable of kindness. I think they might just dish it out quite sparingly.

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So you don’t believe in the sort of romanticization of thick skin, or this kind of glorification of hardening oneself?
Not at all. Of course I don’t believe in that, but I do believe in really actively examining reactivity. Being overly reactive—which hypersensitive people can be—is not your friend, per se. To tone down reactivity is a real positive, and that’s a really positive form of toughening, you know?

And also threads very tightly with empathy.
It does, because you can stay empathetic, and you can stay sensitive, but just recognize that you don’t want to be hyperreactive as well. That’s not gonna give the best result of what your empathy or sensitivity is—that feeling that’s in you. It’s gonna fuck it up.

Over-reactivity is never my friend.
Right? Reactivity is not anger itself, but it’s one of its heads, yeah? It’s kind of a neutral, invisible form of anger. You can also be hyper-reactive in the positive, which can be just as foolhardy, because you might be just blotting out 10 other pieces of information that you should be balancing.

And because we were talking about family… do you feel like reactivity in family is more acute because of all the sort of histories and nuances?
No, I think people make the worst mistakes through hyper-reactivity, because the more intimate the setting, sometimes the more unchained the hyper-reactive person can be—and therefore the more damage the hyper-reactive person can do. So, absolutely, it’s a lifelong thing to work on. If you’re a sort of hypersensitive or reactive being, you gotta work on it. Gaining awareness is the first step. After that, put your back into it—it’ll help.

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Being on film sets for decades, I’m sure you’ve witnessed truly cultivated nonreactivity, and you’ve also seen the inverse at its worst at times?
I’ve definitely seen the best nonreactivity, where it’s like, ‘Oh man, I’ve got to just take a mental photograph of that and put it on my internal dream wall.’ And yeah, of course you see all kinds of bad behavior. You really only notice it when it’s not good, so I’m sure I’ve been guilty of it too. I can’t think of a damning example at the moment, but I’m sure they’re there.

Film sets are just interesting little micro climates. One might be like Thailand, and one might be like Nevada, you know what I mean? They have their own atmosphere. It’s hard to figure out exactly what the source is. When they’re good, you can tell that it’s just a super positive sign of the energy of the people, sure, and sometimes they’re mysteriously off, but there’s no clearly identifiable villain. And some of them are clearly identifiable sources of stress or strain on people, or it’s just economics, or it’s time. I mean, there’s a million reasons.

And when it comes to witnessing things on a set that land on the “dream wall,” what’s the consistent trait?
I would say restraint is what has been amazing for me to see. That I admire—when you see someone in a position of strength exercise restraint and allow things to be worked through in a certain way that could easily veer into a confrontation or something. And when you watch someone lead things in a positive direction—there’s usually a lot of restraint involved—especially when managing a lot of personalities.

And how do you feel about just restraint in general? Is it a sexy trait to you? Do you like restraint in art?
I don’t know. No. I think abandon is beautiful too. But I guess there’s a difference… abandon is totally different than reactivity and restraint—the sort of playful freedom when it’s allowed to exist is a beautiful thing. I wouldn’t call it sexy. I would just say that it’s certainly better than its opposite, which is kind of triggered, explosive reactivity.

When do you last feel you yourself interacted with abandon?
I got very excited about planting, like, four dozen fruit trees. That was maybe an indulgence more than abandon, but that was probably about as much fun as I’ve had lately.

Stone fruits? Like plums or apples or what?
Pear and apple. But it was a thrill, because normally it’s like a two or three thing. I’m like, ‘No, we’re gonna need 50.’

You mentioned your interest in re-wilding outdoor spaces, our yards. Are you re-wilding yourself a bit?
I’m jolly down to rewild.

It’s a big topic here in California—all these non-native plants and fires etc., trying to make environments more vertical.
The layers and insects! It’s a whole wonderful world to get into. I started doing these voiceovers for these nature documentaries, and it’s been really fun. It’s aided in my curiosity—my multiple wheelhouse curiosities—and I’m trying to apply it to whatever patch of green I have around me.

I wanted to ask about this project—The Future of Nature—I didn’t think the opportunity would present itself—but please, do tell!
It’s great. I did two of them. One was during COVID, and one recently. They’re British documentary scientists and filmmakers, and the project is to do with how nature can actually heal itself—how nature draws carbon down and has the tools to combat and support its own environment. The drawing down of carbon is happening naturally all around us, in grasslands, in trees, and in all of the things that sustain the oceans—and everything that interconnects with that: the insect populations, the birds, the grazing animals, all these things.

So what’s the audience response?
The insects are dying off, right? The bees are in danger—so literally anything you can do to increase the potential well-being of pollinators is really helping nature. They’re really nice documentaries, because they lay out a lot of truths in a way that’s not apocalyptic, because apocalyptic thinking isn’t helpful. We all know that sweeping, radical change isn’t very doable. We don’t have the support to do it. So it’s trying to build a thought process where people can make micro to macro changes in their own lives—or even in how they just perceive things and share things—that are supportive of nature.

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You touch on this topic of healing, and I think it is remarkable sometimes to see the way the body can heal itself, or our planet can heal itself—that it has the tools. How intrinsic to empathy is the idea of healing to you?
In some way, that’s part of what we’re all here to do, right? To get into trouble, get hurt, get healed. That is what a life’s journey is. Healing is remarkable. I have this friend who I watched heal in a way that inspires me, and it really sticks me with, moves me with awe, and gives me so much hope—it’s the most beautiful thing that you know in the world. Everybody’s gonna get hurt, everybody’s gonna get their heart broken, everybody’s gonna get disappointed, or worse, and worse. So the healing side of the coin… it’s everything.
I suppose it ties into curiosity, because maybe: you can’t be curious if you’re not healed or healing?
I certainly feel like I am, and I love it. I also really work on it. I do think you heal without trying to some extent, but I think with trying, you do a little better.

You can just be witness or you can be active I suppose?
Totally true. Some historian I was listening to the other day said: “You cannot see so many things clearly at the time that they are happening.” It really does take significant processing and hindsight to gain clarity about a lot of things. You’re not really going to understand what’s happening to you. So many parts of the experience you won’t have clarity about until much later. But being really present in it? You’ll have the best outcome.

So you gotta do your best to be present, but know that there’s no clarity?
Your perceptions of the moment will still not have the depth that they will later. Or perhaps that’s just the added interest of living—that things change and deepen, and until hopefully, they just completely dissipate.

It’s gotta get easier at some point?
Yeah, that whole thing, it’ll be easier when you’re older—we all know that’s a lie.

So far, not mine.
Oh, yeah. Oh, it’s gonna get so much easier [laughs].

You mentioned your nature project—the narration piece with The Future of Nature. It’s a PBS project, and PBS is obviously very much in the cultural dialogue at present because of this “uncertainty” and threats to funding sources. Is there a conversation in your kind of artistic community about arts under threat?
I feel the arts have been under threat my whole life. I feel that’s always been part of the conversation. For the little bit that arts are supported—it’s mainly private resources that go towards sustaining the arts much more than they are public anyway. And to strip away the tiny bit of public support of the arts in a country where it’s probably our finest export—one of our most unique and special contributions to the world…It’s hard to rank what’s at stake right now when all these life-saving supports are being stripped away from the most vulnerable people. It’s hard to know where to focus. We have to kind of let the dust settle, figure out where the greatest need is going to be.

What does that look like to you? Is it about mobilization? Figures coming forward? Is it a movement?
I think there will be mobilization. I definitely think that the breaking of everything is going to—by virtue of things getting broken—lead to some new techniques and new approaches. If anyone knows what those are yet, they haven’t told me. I don’t know what those are yet. If someone burns the house down, you don’t have a house, so then it’s going to get rebuilt—and that’s what we’re all going to have to figure out together.

But maybe people haven’t talked about PBS this much in a long time, so there’s some merit in it?
I mean, the assault on information—aside from just gutting all social services—I think the real assault is on the fight over information. The thing about information is it will still find its way. One institution dies, and another will be born.

Photographed by Mark Seliger

Styled by Austen Turner

Written by Matthew Bedard

Hair: Marki Shkreli at The Wall Group

Makeup: Mariel Barrera at Forward Artists

Managing Director: Kyle Kilness

Executive Producer: Ruth Levy

Producer: Madi Overstreet

Flaunt Film: Tyler Rabin and Jabari Browne

Flaunt Film Music: Elijah

Digi Tech: Will Foerster

Post-Production: Rachel Crowe

Photo Assistant: Reggie Desilus

Styling Assistant: Hernán Duarte Ruiz

Photo Intern: Jonas Søndergaard

Production Interns: Leanna Overbeck and Zora Gandhi

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