Here is what happens in this article: I meet with Michelle Williams on three days in two different cities over a bit more than a week. Much does not go as either of us expects. On the first day, we mainly talk about her youth, and I make her cry. On the second, we mainly talk about her becoming Marilyn Monroe. This is the only dry-eyed meeting. (Unless—quite possible—I was too insensitive to notice.) On the third, we mainly talk about her life with, and without, Heath Ledger. At the end of the third day, we walk around a park in the dark. At the end of the second day, we tidy up the leftovers of her daughter's birthday cupcakes. At the end of the first day, she leaves in tears, her parting words: "That was really awful."

That's about all. There's also a moment at the very end of the article that could be taken as an atmospheric, ambivalent allegory about the chasing of dreams, but is probably just a brief account of a long hike. The rest is taken up with all that kind of stuff that people sometimes say when they're asked enough questions. If any of it breaks your heart, it was probably already a little broken to begin with.

***

On that first day, we meet at the Oakwood apartments in Los Angeles. This extensive residential compound is a legendary staging post for aspiring actors—indeed for anyone trying to get a foothold in the city. It is also where Michelle Williams used to stay in her early teens, long before Dawson's Creek, let alone her subsequent stealthy rise through an interesting mess of movies, whose inevitable misfires never seemed to be hers, until she emerged as one of the great unshowy talents of her generation. Meeting here was my suggestion. No great reason. In everything I'd read about her, this was the only place in Los Angeles that seemed even slightly significant. (She's lived in Brooklyn for many years.) Though she phones me when she's on her way, wondering if we should change the plan because it's raining and she is wearing thin b...