Jamie Lee Curtis proves she’s more than a horror-movie legend—no retouching necessary
PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY OF JAMIE LEE Curtis’ house on the west side of Los Angeles, I am met by her dog Runi, a rescue terrier-poodle that bounds down the stairs like an animated ball of fluff, tail wagging. Curtis is not far behind, striding down to meet me warmly as if we are already old friends. She’s tall and trim, and her gaze is intense—in a good way. Upstairs in her kitchen, she fixes a cappuccino and pours me a tall glass of mint water and we start talking. She brings up her new film Halloween, a new imagining of the grand-daddy of the contemporary horror movie, and the book she’s reading about World War I, as well as trauma and healing and the state of America, and soon we’re both getting emotional,
