Jessica Lange has been mesmerizing audiences with her emotionally raw performances since she first appeared to the movie masses in 1976, kicking and screaming into King Kong's palm. Over the nearly 30 years since, Lange's uniquely dangerous way of fielding the inner life of a character has proven fascinating in such films as The Postman Always Rings Twice, Frances, Sweet Dreams, Country, Cape Fear, and of course her Oscar-winning turns in Tootsie and Blue Sky. On stage, she's proven just as unconventional and controversial. And while she received critical admiration and an Olivier nomination as Mary Tyrone in Eugene O'Neill's Long Day's Journey Into Night in London a few years ago, it's been her interpretations of that other iconic American playwright, Tennessee Williams, which have garnered her the most acclaim—and debate—on these shores. After taking a swipe at Maggie in a 1985 TV version of Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Lange made her Broadway debut in 1992 as Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire which she also played in London and in a TV-movie. Now she's tackling Amanda in The Glass Menagerie at the Barrymore. A week after opening, we sat down with Lange in her dressing room as she curled up in a chair—looking ravishing with no make-up, wearing a pair of jeans, simple blouse and black socks—to discuss her passion for Williams, her process of creating Amanda and her thoughts on the critics.

All the flowers in here! Does the scent help you get in the mood for Amanda?
A little faded? A little wilted? [Laughs.] When did you see the play?

Right before you opened.
Oh, OK. Because it always takes me while to get it up and running.

So. Maggie, Blanche, now Amanda. You've become a leading interpreter of the Williams' women.
Oh, my! Oh, my. [Laughs.] That is beyond my wildest dreams.

But obviously your commitment to The Glass Menagerie is more than just, “Oh, that's a good part.”
No, it's Tennessee.

You actually met him in the early 1980s, right?
A couple of times. The first time I was just down in Key West with friends, and the person I was with was a friend of his, and we ended up having supper with him one night. And the other time was down in St. Bart's. And he was there at the same time, and again we had dinner together.

What did you talk about?
Well, in St. Bart's he was talking about Chekhov, I remember that. He wanted to do a production… Oh, I wish I could remember more.

Did you talk about his plays at all?
I didn't. I was always so starstruck when I was around him. I mean there have only been a few occasions in my life where I met somebody who's had that kind of influence and resonance on my life. So I have to say, I was a little awestruck.

So, dining with Tennessee—did you drink a lot?
[Laughs.] We had a little wine. But I wasn't drinking heavily. And I think…I think he just kind of drank… steady.

When did you start looking at Williams's plays for yourself?
Well, of course the first one, as you know, was Maggie. And that came up kind of out of the blue. Blanche was always, always in the back of my mind. That was just a part that—God, from the first time I read it, probably in acting school when I was in my early 20s—I mean, that part just rocked me. And I thought, “Oh my God, to play Blanche DuBois…” Well, I was blessed because I actually got to do it on three different occasions. But probably every actor and actress has one or two parts that they always imagined doing. Blanche was one. And then later, Mary Tyrone became one.

And Amanda?
You know, I hadn't really thought about it. Except, oddly enough, the very first dramatic monologue I ever worked on in my speech club in junior high school was the jonquil speech.

Good lord! Did you choose it yourself?
I did! I chose it! [Laughs.]

In junior high, playing an older woman reminiscing about her many past loves?
[Laughs.] You know, it's like all those high school plays—you're always doing something you're years-to-decades too young for! But really Amanda came to me because of [Glass Menagerie producer] Bill Kenwright, who I'd worked for twice before. [He produced the London productions of Streetcar and Long Day's Journey.] He wanted me to do it. And I kind of hemmed and hawed for a couple of years and then I finally agreed.

During those years did you look over the script? I mean, just at the character, without the all the professional trappings of Broadway?
Oh, that's the way I always look at things.

What was your trepidation?
Well, I always see if this is something I can deal with, you know? And can I actually bring something to this part, rather than just doing it.

And what became your personal hook into Amanda?
It was so clearly mothering. I really think that's the spine of the character. Because that's all she has left. Basically, she's lost everything else. She's lost her husband, who, I actually made a choice in interpreting this role, to be that she was madly and passionately in love with him. And still is. So, you know, she's lost him—a great love. She's lost her youth. She's lost her whole heritage-which I always assumed was very well-bred, with all the advantages of wealth and position. And now she's living in a tenement during the Depression in St. Louis with two grown children. So when you have a character as highly energized as Amanda is-that has just such a life force—there's just no other outlet for her than to direct these energies to these two children, which, of course, becomes overwhelming.

Yet Amanda is practical with her kids. Laura: business school or husband. Tom: get me a gentleman caller, then you can leave.
She's very practical.

Are you that way in your own life?
Oh, I think so. Maybe not when it comes to myself. [Laughs.] But when it comes to taking care of my family. Yes, I think I'm very practical.

As The Glass Menagerie is Tennessee Williams's most autobiographial play, how important was that in creating Amanda?
A lot of my research for Amanda came from Edwina Dakin [Williams's mother]. I'd read so much about her. Over the years I had read all his biographies, his memoirs, books, critical essays, everything I came upon.

And what became useful?
In researching, I realized that Edwina was a gorgeous woman, very full of life. Now, I know she had a difficult and complicated relationship with Tennessee, which is what he obviously drew on for Tom and Amanda. But I never saw Amanda as being defeated or faded or a remnant of something else. I really felt this was a woman who was in her prime, incredibly lovely. Like I chose to believe that when she says she had “17 gentlemen callers,” that was not fabricated. That she actually did have 17 young men come to call one afternoon. Because that, to me, became more interesting. When somebody has that kind of glorious youth—of beauty and position—to then see it all systematically stripped away is much more tragic. And much more touching than someone who just makes things up.

Did you use Edwina's real-life background, of her father being a clergyman?
Yeah. [Laughs.] I just adopted Edwina Dakin's history for Amanda's!

Well, it's quite a history. As Edwina always said, “The Dakins could trace themselves back to the Normans!”
Yup! [Laughs.] She wasn't in the D.A.R. for nothing! But you know, also, I heard some criticism, which is so mindless and actually uninformed, that I'm “too young” or “too pretty” to play Amanda. I mean, as it is [in the play, set in 1938], Amanda is probably only in her mid- to-late 40s. Because if you figure she was a bride before WWI—those women married a lot earlier then—and if you push it to its most practical limit, maybe she was 25 when she had her first child. Well, Laura's only 23 [in the play], and that would make Amanda between 45 and 50. So this idea that Amanda should be played by a 60 to 70- year-old woman is crazy.

Sounds like a “projection of nostalgia” on the part of some critics.
It's wrong-headed criticism. It is ignorant.

Do you read your reviews?
Not when I'm doing the play, no. It makes you self-conscious. Even if it's a compliment, suddenly you become aware of a moment someone raved about, and then you get to “that moment” in the performance and go, “Oh, this is that moment…”

Zap! The spontaneity's gone.
Oh, yeah! So no, I don't. I get a kind of overview from people. Like, “How are we doing?” It's this, it's that, but specifics, I chose not to. I mean, obviously, I've seen the quotes in our ads. So, I've seen bits and pieces. But it's funny, because there's always one review that I wait for—always, always, always.

And which review is that?
The New Yorker.

Well, it was worth waiting for. Hilton Als raved.
I have to admit, I kind of glanced at it. But that's the only one I allow myself to read.

Why The New Yorker?
It started way back when Pauline Kael was reviewing films. And I would just always wait to read her reviews. Always. Because she was so damn smart, and so informed and had such references.

Well, critical analysis aside, since you also brought up your looks—let's talk about 'em.
OK… [Laughs.]

Why the red wig?
Well, I didn't want to play Amanda as a blonde. I somehow didn't think that was appropriate. It was some kind of emotional response, not to be a blonde. And so we looked at colors, and I liked the richness of that auburn.

And the marcel waves? To make her a bit out-of-date in1938?
Yeah, she's still not quite moving forward. When you think of the south at that time—and St. Louis is kind of borderline—the South was still barely coming out of the last century. I mean, in my research, I've collected a lot of Walker Evans photographs. I have a large collection of his study—when he went though the South in the '30s and photographed old plantation houses. When I was doing Streetcar I used a lot of those as references. I had a whole group of them that were Belle Reve. And now with Amanda there's a whole other group for Blue Mountain and her home.

But you also use your personal history to establish a sense of place. And grief. Like I read during Streetcar you used the scent of a cologne from someone who had died?
Yes, from a dear friend of mine in the fashion industry, who died in the mid-1980s in Paris. Antonio.

It helped you find that love and loss?
Umm-hmmm. And I'm using it again! Every time I put on that white dress and come out for the jonquils [speech], and say, “This is the dress,” I'm sure the people backstage are going [Coughs]—Awwg!—but I do, I spray it right before I come out!

That's a useful cologne.
It is. It's carried me through quite a few things. [Gently laughs.] I never used it for Mary Tyrone, because it wasn't right. But for haunted Southern women? It's a great scent.