Scrappy Little Nobody Read online

  Ninety percent of the people I’ve worked with who are disruptive or lazy or unskilled or addicts or likely to throw a tantrum are men. Ninety percent of the ones who get called “difficult” are women. Lest we be besmirched with that most damning label, it feels imperative that we strive for “nice.” When I’m put in an uncomfortable position or when someone asks something of me that I feel borders on taking advantage, the threat of “so nice” being snatched away from me hangs in the air. Should I stand my ground, or be a doormat? How many concessions would I have to make, how much crap would I have to swallow to stay a “nice girl”? Usually more than I am willing.

  Women encounter this in social situations as well. Let me take you out. Don’t be so uptight. Just have one more drink. And if you don’t, someone might strip you of an adjective you’ve been convinced has value, and label you as something else. Professional people are usually clever enough not to use this term, but in social situations, the threatened brand is “bitch.”

  As Sondheim said, Nice is different than good. Do you need to do whatever you’re told to be a nice person? Maybe. Do you need to do whatever you’re told to be a good person? Of course not! Man, woman, personal, professional—some people have a skill for persuading you the best thing you can be is obedient.

  A woman I was about to work with told me she’d been asking around about me. She said someone described me as “ten percent defiant.” She was quick to point out she didn’t think they’d meant it as a criticism. I was quick to point out I didn’t take it as one.

  I gave up on being Nice. I started putting more value on other qualities instead: passion, bravery, intelligence, practicality, humor, patience, fairness, sensitivity. Those last three might seem like they are covered by “nice,” but make no mistake, they are not. A person who smiles a lot and remembers everyone’s birthday can turn out to be undercover crazy, a compulsive thief, and boring to boot. I don’t put a lot of stock in nice. I’d prefer to be around people who have any of the above qualities over “niceness,” and I’d prefer it if that applied to me, too. I’m also okay if the most accurate description of me is nervous, and a little salty. But at least I know what I want to strive for.

  award shows

  An award show isn’t glamorous. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to glamorous, so I’m not knocking it, but I know it’s not the real deal. Real glamour is opening night at the opera, or a lavish wedding on a tropical cliffside. I assume; I’ve never been invited to either of those things. An award show is as glamorous as a middle school dance. Again, I assume; I was never invited to a middle school dance, either. Industry fetes are populated with nervous idiots in the nicest clothes they could find and beleaguered chaperones in black jeans and blazers trying to make sure the nervous idiots don’t accidentally set the place on fire before the night is over.

  I usually arrive to major events with a mild injury from maintaining the “wrinkle-free” position in the car on the way there. A stylist will have steamed my dress to smooth, buttery perfection, and there’s nothing like a long car ride to give you a nice erratic patch of creases just above your crotch, so you brace yourself like a corpse in a diagonal position on your seat. You must not bend at the waist! If there’s no one sitting next to you, you can lie across two seats, but even my body is not short enough to fit that way, so you’re up on your elbows the whole time. You’ll be in this position for about half an hour, so choose wisely. Oh, and my favorite thing about this technique is that it doesn’t work.

  Getting out of the car is always a little fun, I’ll admit, because I like to go out the “wrong” side. This is a HUGE deal for no reason at all and I get a rush of mischievous pleasure every time I do it. The event organizers want you to get out on the side where the red carpet is set up so that photographers can get the “coming out of the car” shot. That shot is universally awful. Even if there’s no possibility of an up-skirt, I’ve just contorted my body back to a recognizable human position and all the blood is returning to my fingers; let’s not capture that for posterity. Without fail, the headset-clad representative who has been sent to begin chaperoning me will open the car door to find me exiting the other side and start sputtering that I need to get out on this side, on this side! But it’s too late, and ten seconds later when I am beside them (because like Bear Grylls or the dog in Homeward Bound, somehow I persevered and made it to my destination), even they seem confused about why their heart rate is so elevated. And then the shouting begins.

  The good shouting is from people who have come to take pictures on their phones and mid-range digital cameras. They are friendly and sincere and when I wave at them they cheer, and I won’t lie, I feel like I’m a slightly taller Kim Jong-un and it’s dope as hell. At the big award shows you stand between the fans and the line of photographers, and I like to swing around every couple of steps and make ugly faces at the friendly side to remind myself that we’re all just pretending. I often regret it because someone in the crowd catches a photo that ends up online, but it’s the price I pay to keep my public happy! (Sorry . . . it goes to your head fast. I would make a great ruthless dictator.)

  The bad shouting is from the line of photographers. They don’t want a good picture, they need a good picture. This is their job, and “Over here! Smile! Tell us who you’re wearing!” is not a request floated by a fan; it’s a demand. They are traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and they will be heard, dammit.

  “Buy! Sell! Over here! Over the shoulder! Over the shoulder, Anna! Show us the back of the dressssssss!” You must maintain your smile through it, though. You cannot give any indication that a hundred people are shouting at you like drowning victims begging for a lifeboat. And when they say “Blow us a kiss!”—don’t do it. First of all, the photograph won’t have a caption that says, “Some red-faced photographer asked her to do this—she didn’t just walk up to the red carpet and think, How can I make myself look like an asshole?” And second, your eyes always half close when you blow a kiss, which makes you look drunk. This is especially frustrating when you managed to limit your intake to four drinks pre-carpet. Get good at saying “No thank you” through clenched teeth. Otherwise, they’ll get a photo where you look scowly, and In Touch Weekly will use it the next time they want to imply your husband is cheating on you with your dog psychic.

  After photos, you talk to some on-camera journalists. I have probably given my worst sound bites on red carpets. Cameras are going off, people are screaming, Grumpy Cat shows up. There should be special training for this, like they did with horses in the First World War.

  More than once I have literally bailed three words into a response. “Yeah, it’s exciting to be here, uh . . . I don’t, uh, I’m bad at this, I’m sorry.” I have said those words verbatim. Why do they keep inviting me back?

  There’s a campaign called #AskHerMore, which was started by some thoughtful, intelligent females (Lena Dunham, Reese Witherspoon, Shonda Rhimes, etc.). It aims to ensure that when women attend events, they are asked about more than their dresses. Men don’t answer questions exclusively about their clothes; why should we? A simple and understandable request.

  However, if people could ask me less, that would be great. I would love it if we could limit my red carpet topics to my favorite colors, what sound a duck makes, and my thoughts on McDonald’s All-Day Breakfast—blessing or curse?

  The next step is finding someone you know. Once I find someone who is willing to talk to me, I don’t leave their side for the rest of the evening. Unless I find someone better. Then I’m like, “God, some loser named Chris Pine has been following me around all night, let’s shake him!”

  Meeting someone new in these situations is odd, because you don’t normally meet someone for the first time in a gown or a tuxedo. The clothes have a strange effect on my speech, and unless I know the person very well I take on a mannered, old-timey tone. I find myself asking men things like “May I take your arm?” instead of saying, “Dude, my heels are a shit show,
so I’m gonna hold on to you, ’cause if I don’t I’m gonna drop faster than anything I’ve ever been handed that’s over ten pounds.”

  Another source of anxiety is the famous people! The fucking famous people everywhere! Handsome movie stars, beautiful movie stars, young movie star couples I suspect are only together for the PR. (For the record, if I was approached to be the girlfriend of a male celebrity for a few months for PR purposes, I would one hundred percent do it. That’s not a joke; I wouldn’t even hesitate.)

  Even when you are nominated for an award, or chatting with your movie star cast, the other celebrities at award shows reduce you to the most pathetic version of yourself. You know that feeling when you see a pretty girl and you immediately hate her because you assume she’d never talk to you (this metaphor works if you’re a girl or a guy), but then she smiles and introduces herself and you’re like, how could I have misjudged you, you are clearly the best person alive! That feeling is intensified tenfold with movie stars. Ugh, look at Kate Beckinsale across the room with her perfect hair and her perfect laugh and I’ll bet she’s an ice queen bitc— Oh god, she’s coming over here. She gives you a compliment and tells you one dirty joke and you are ready to blindly pledge your life to her service. Long live the queen!

  After a while you’ll have to pee, and that’s where the illusion really falls apart. Even the nicest gown can’t be glamorous when you’ve got it hiked around your waist. Why even steam the dress?! You’re holding up the full skirt with one hand (sometimes the dress is so big it fills the entire stall) while you use the other to get your underwear down. You are pigeon-toed in your six-inch heels and it’s a miracle if you make it through the ordeal rip- and urine-free.

  The show itself is usually funny, but no one laughs because we are all hungry and nervous. Sometimes you get to meet someone unexpected and delightful—for example, at my first Golden Globes I met the voice of Dug from the film Up, and he indulged me by saying, “I have just met you and I looove you.” I know! The after-party is often better, because win or lose, it’s over, and you can find something to eat! Actually, watching gorgeous women in skintight gowns attacking anyone holding a tray of food is half the fun.

  The best part is going home. It’s a relief. I’m so happy it’s over, which I know sounds like a line. It’s not like I’m NOT checking Twitter to see if people liked my dress, but there’s an afterglow when my anxiety level returns to its normal, low-grade panic setting and simple acts are transformed into considerable luxuries.

  I usually take off my shoes in the car and walk into my home barefoot, my dress dragging. The dress comes off and I get into sweatpants and a hoodie with no bra, but for the moment I keep on the jewelry and makeup. If the event is out of town and I’m staying in a hotel, I get into the bathrobe, which is nice, but it still has a Marilyn Monroe, glamorous vibe, and I’m going for more of a trashy jewel thief thing.

  At home I get to sit on my couch, put on an old episode of 30 Rock, and eat mac and cheese in sweatpants and thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds. It is the most delicious dichotomy I’ve encountered in my life.

  Voyeur

  My first big award show was the Golden Globes the year I was nominated for Up in the Air. When you’re wearing a long dress, which I was for the first time, you want to go for height and comfort in your shoe choice. Style really doesn’t matter because no one is ever going to see them. But as this was my first Golden Globes, I wanted to wear this perfect pair of punishing, embellished skyscrapers. They were ridiculously painful, but they were a work of art. Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to endure an entire evening in them, my publicist put a pair of slightly less ridiculous shoes in her bag to hand off to me once I was done with the red carpet. After I walked the carpet and sat down in the ballroom, I ripped off the skyscrapers, but my feet were so swollen they wouldn’t even fit into the “easy” shoes. I sat through the entire program with my bare feet under the table, praying that by the time the show was over I’d be able to squeeze them into my footwear. If I’d won, I would have looked like a little girl in her mother’s dress, hobbling up onstage. But that was the year I met the voice of Dug, so the night was a win.

  The first time I got to present was that same year at the SAG Awards. I was wearing a strapless purple gown and nervously fiddled with the bodice as I waited backstage. Eventually, Stanley Tucci, who was presenting with me, leaned in and said, “Stop adjusting your boobs, you look fine.”

  The award went to Drew Barrymore for Grey Gardens, and she gave a flustered but obviously heartfelt speech. We escorted her offstage, and once we were in the wings, we turned to congratulate her. She walked steadily past us, leaned against a pillar, and closed her eyes. She was holding her award low by her waist and breathing slowly in and out. I thought, Something real is happening in front of me. This is a human, taking a moment for herself because everything else has been pageantry.

  Stanley and I backed up a bit more. A woman wearing a headset crept near her with a desperate look on her face, but Drew Barrymore, movie star and recent SAG Award recipient, was not ready to turn herself back on. The woman in the headset finally squeaked, “Miss Barrymore, we’re just gonna take you back here to have some pictures—”

  “Just give me a second.” She was perfectly calm and perfectly polite, but she was serious.

  “Can I get you some water?” (It never fails.)

  “Sure.”

  The woman disappeared to get a glass of water. I suspect that this was more about buying time than being thirsty. Stanley and I stayed quiet and tiptoed past her. Just before she was out of view, I turned back to see her still standing there, eyes closed. I looked away quickly, because even observing her felt like an invasion. But it was sort of beautiful. She’d just been honored for a project she clearly cared about deeply and was resolved to experience that moment on her own terms.

  The Oscars of a Parallel Universe

  I had a very different experience presenting an award at the Oscars that year. At most award shows, you have the option to rehearse. At the Oscars, rehearsal is mandatory. It doesn’t matter if you’re Brad Pitt or screen legend Sidney Poitier, you come in the day before to walk the little path to your mark and say your intro into the microphone. It is “strongly recommended” that women rehearse in their heels.

  I was paired with Zac Efron, and in my jeans and ridiculous shoes I asked him, “May I take your arm?” The rehearsal is filmed and treated as a full production so that the director, cameramen, and editors can root out any potential mishaps. There are hired stand-ins scattered in the audience, sitting in the seats of all the nominees.

  We walked our path and said our lines and waited for the winner to be announced. For rehearsal, the winner is chosen completely at random, so the camera crew will be prepared for anything. I was presenting the award for Best Sound Editing and (as I’m sure you remember) Paul N. J. Ottosson won for The Hurt Locker. But in the rehearsal, Inglourious Basterds won. A gentleman from the audience stood up and made his way to the stage. I gave him a perfunctory embrace (’cause that’s what you do) and backed up about four feet to the “listening” mark, where the presenter waits until the speech is over. Now, if I were this dude, I would just go, “Thank you, thank you, speech speech speech, I’m making my speech, it’s going on for about sixty seconds, thank you so much, good night.”

  Instead, I was treated to a thoughtful monologue about the joys of working with Quentin Tarantino, the trials and triumphs of the sound-editing process, and the importance of family above all. I’d fallen into a parallel universe. This had taken research. He wasn’t reading off of anything, which meant he had memorized all this information and all these names. I realized that something strange was happening in the audience. Even though these people were not involved in the nominated films, even though the winners were chosen completely at random, they must have been sitting there thinking, Call my guy’s name, come on, call my guy’s name. I do not know how the rehearsal nominees are hired, but the s
creening process seems to find people fitting the description “kooky but harmless . . . we hope.”

  The real deal was equally surprising. The presentation went smoothly, Mr. Ottosson accepted his award, and I escorted him offstage. The weird thing was what happened after. What’s the first thing you would want to do after winning an Oscar? Jump into the arms of your loved ones and collaborators? Of course that’s what you’d want! But that’s not what happens. What happens is that the two goons you’ve never met before who just butchered the pronunciation of your name are whisked around with you to take a series of commemorative and candid photos in different setups around the theater.

  First stop is the wings just offstage—snap, snap, smile, how do you feel, congratulations. Next is a long walk down a dim hallway to a professional-looking photo setup: all-white background, good lighting, pose with the presenters, pose by yourself (while the presenters get a drink)—smile, do a serious one, hold out the Oscar, snap, snap, congratulations. Last up, a door is opened to a small ballroom, and bleachers full of photographers start snapping and screaming. You know that scene in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant tries to tell Julia Roberts not to open the door (but somehow can’t get out the words “Don’t open the door.” Come on, Richard Curtis, you’re better than that!) and she opens the door and is confronted by a sea of flashing lights and demanding voices? It’s like that. You walk onto a platform—snap, snap, smile, over here, hold out the Oscar, snap, snap, congratulations, but I need you to look over here. This room goes on the longest and is the most aggressive. Though, to be honest, I prefer the unbridled onslaught to the cordial desperation of the other stops. Then there are solo photos in the ballroom (again, the presenters go get a drink) and eventually you go back to your seat.