![]() She is bankable, a director's delight and reportedly pulls in more than $1 million per picture. Perhaps the hottest female actress of her generation (15 months ago, she was dubbed "Hollywood's Most Wanted Woman" on the cover of People), Turner has followed the same path as her peers (Streep, Lange, Winger) by having children, living a normal life (in her case, with real estate broker and sports fanatic husband Jay Weiss in New York), choosing interesting projects with interesting people and working her butt off. ![]() The other day she took Rachel to the Baltimore Aquarium and curious passers-by noticed the baby inside the Snugli, not her mom. Just another working mother, Turner tends to blend into the background the way few major stars seem to do. "Mommy has to go to work now, Rache," Turner says after a few minutes, handing over her daughter. I have talked to these women who said it was the most glorious time of their life and I thought, 'Haven't you ever played a good game of racquetball?' " I mean, if there were another way around it I'd be glad to try. ![]() The baby was born four weeks premature and Turner delivered by cesarean section. The nanny hands Rachel to Turner, who cradles the infant in her arms, cooing and gurgling, intoxicated with love. Rachel is her 13-week-old daughter, curled in her pink jammies like one of those expensive talking dolls. "Before we start, you have to meet Rachel," she says, beaming like a bank of searchlights. You scarcely mind when she gives her age as 32 and averts her blue eyes momentarily (she was 33 in June). Articulate and intelligent, with a reputation as a voracious reader, Turner - the object of so many men's fantasies - turns out to be just one of the girls. She is raucous, formidable and very sexy. Earthy and athletic, with a guttural giggle and a penchant for four-letter words and expressions like "far out" and "un-believable," she alternates between smoking foreign cigarettes and blowing her nose with Puffs. She sits on the floor, curling her legs under the coffee table, and pours a cup of hot tea. "With a certain character behind you," she says, by way of explaining the metamorphosis, "or you walk into a thing when they're honoring you, you're gorgeous. Using these pipes and her own brand of theatrical moxie, Turner periodically blossoms into a gorgeous and mercurial cinema creature, a throwback to the great screen sirens of the '30s and '40s minus the self-destructive prima donna persona. She enunciates each word and on the phone says things like "dear" and "dahhrrling" and sounds like Dame Judith Anderson calling from the Old Vic. The accent is lilting, almost "Lost Horizon"-like, somewhere between Berlitz and Bangkok, and instantly recognizable. "I've always thought of myself as very girl-next-door looking." "I've never really felt that I was beautiful," she says in her husky Bacall baritone. This is a woman who, with the right lighting and a lifetime supply of Estee Lauder, could maybe - just maybe - pass for smoldering screen goddess Kathleen Turner. The face is plain and unrouged, not beautiful exactly, but intriguing, with its cat's eyes and flared nostrils and Midwestern, Missouri-bred dimples.įorget Matty Walker. The legs, those gorgeous gams that drove sweaty Bill Hurt to hurling furniture through her door in "Body Heat," are swathed in black stretch pants and teal sweat socks. The figure, full and ripe and maternal, is hidden under a loose black sweater the size of Dumbo's baby blanket. The hair is limp and uncurled, pinned back from a wide forehead. Nobody would believe it, except maybe fans of "Hollywood Babylon II." ![]() BALTIMORE - No wonder she doesn't want her picture taken. ![]()
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