Scrappy Little Nobody (25 page)

We went to the emergency room and, much like my parents, no one there had ever heard of the Independent Spirit Awards. Where are the film fans in this town? They did not seem moved to bump me to the top of the ER’s priority list. I sat in the waiting
room staring at my face in the reflection of my smudged metal purse handle. Whatever was happening was painful, too painful to touch, but when I wrote nine out of ten on my form’s pain scale, even the admissions nurse knew it was a lie. Somebody fix my face!! I had an award to lose!

After a while a doctor took me into a hospital room and told me I had an infection that had created a cyst inside my nose.
Charming
. It was minor, but still serious because of its proximity to my brain.

I chose this moment to say, “Have you ever heard of the Spirit Awards? They’re like the Oscars of independent film.”

He put his hand on my forehead for leverage.

“Stop talking, I have to lance it.”

Lance, as in, cut open. That’s right! The hard, unbearably tender thing behind my nose was about to be stabbed and drained. And the way in? Up my nostril! He told me he was going to numb it with something called “freezing spray” and proceeded to stick a nozzle into my nose and spray in a cold liquid. Funny thing about your nose, though: it rejects fluids being shot into it, because your brain thinks you’re drowning. It’s the same principle as waterboarding. I involuntarily pulled away several times and spluttered wildly when he held my head.

The doctor looked at me, as disappointed as he was frustrated, and eventually said, “Well, if that’s the best we can do, this is going to hurt.”

I didn’t want to be stabbed in my still-throbbing nose, but at that point anything seemed like a better alternative to more freezing spray.

I was wrong.

You know when a doctor says “This is going to hurt” and they do whatever they have to do and you think,
This is un-fucking-believable I can’t stand it fuck fuck fuck,
but you just sit there grimacing in silence? This was the only time I have shouted in front of a doctor. It was totally involuntary, and once it was over I was surprised to find tears had already reached my neck.

In terms of medical ailments, I count myself extremely lucky to have had something immediately treatable that had no long-term repercussions. But once he hooked me up to a drip of painkillers and the world came into logical (but loopy) focus, between the fact that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth, I wasn’t wearing underwear, and pus was still draining from a cyst in my face, I abandoned any hope of making it to Santa Monica in time for an award show ninety minutes later.

Alex came into the room. I whimpered a little, both exhausted and stoned.

“Don’t smile, you still look weird. Okay, see, when you’re not smiling you look okay. I mean, you look like you’re hungover, and you’re very oily, but you don’t look like you’ve been crying in a hospital bed.” He threw my hoodie at me. “Let’s go.”

At least, that’s what I think he said. I could be wrong because I was high as fuck. We got through the discharge paperwork as quickly as possible, and even though the sight of the bill made me want to flee the state and start a new life with the mole people, we raced home. In the car, my head bobbled back and forth, and I tried to say that we’d never make it.

Alex recoiled. “Your face looks weird when you talk, too, so don’t do that either.”

At home I brushed my teeth, put on underwear (I hope), and pulled on my dress. I put all the makeup I could find in a plastic bag and got back in his car. My eyes were still puffy, but I slapped on enough makeup to cover the dark circles. I hung my head out the window like a dog for the rest of the ride, trying to dry my sweaty hair and sober up.

I checked my face in the mirror again. “What do I do if people ask why I won’t smile for a photo? Should I try to explain the nose thing? Should I say I had dental surgery? I’ll say I had dental surgery.”

“Anna, listen to me, because this is important: there is no version where you should say anything to anyone.”

The next thing I remember is being pushed onto the carpet and hearing photographers shout, “Smile! Over here! Smile! What’s her name? Smile! Sweetie, how do you spell your name? Smile!” I was passed off to Jeff Blitz, the director of
Rocket Science
, who got me to my seat and force-fed me bread and water.

For a moment I considered what to do if I won.
Would it be bad to mention it? Would it be worse to not mention it? Should I just hide my mouth by pressing myself too close to the microphone? Should I say I’m high? I’ll say I’m high. Yeah, that’ll be the best thing.

Cate Blanchett won. Of all the amazing contributions that woman has made to the world, beating me that day is the thing I’m most grateful for.

Jeff leaned in to me and quietly joked, “I demand a recount!”

I slowly turned to face him.

“I’m tripping balls.”

I stared at him for about twenty solid seconds, then turned back to the stage.

Here’s a picture of my stoned face, so you don’t have to Google it later.

Forty-five minutes after leaving my hospital bed and looking fly.

The year
Into the Woods
came out, I was asked to perform at the Oscars. I got a call from Neil Patrick Harris and producers Craig Zadan and Neil Meron. Actually, I got an email from my
publicist saying Neil and the producers wanted to set up a call; we arranged a time over a series of emails and eventually called in using a conference service. It was so unexpected!

I’m sure most people know this, but for those of you who missed the broadcast because of a family emergency or a Chilean coal mine–type situation, I was asked to be part of the opening number, in which Neil professes his love for movies while a series of famous film clips play behind him. The final clip would be Cinderella running down the steps of the palace, and I was to appear onstage, as if I’d burst out of the screen. Neil and I would sing for a while and be “rudely” interrupted by a curmudgeon in the form of the hilarious Jack Black.

I was over the moon about all this. They asked me if I would have a problem performing
as
Cinderella, and not as myself. If they’d asked me to perform a one-woman
Puppetry of the Penis
, I would have figured it out. I was beyond excited. An announcement was made, I started learning my music, I dusted off my Spanx. Then I got the following email from one Mr. Ben Affleck:

They want me to present at the Oscars, but we have this insane 3:30 a.m. call. So I couldn’t make it back. I read you are performing? How are you making it work?

Ben and I were in the middle of shooting
The Accountant
in Atlanta, and this email sent a hot spike down my back.

I frantically called my agent.

“Hey, so I just got an email from Ben and he’s saying that they won’t let him out of this crazy call time the day after the
Oscars and it’s a scene that we’re both in and I assumed that I didn’t have a work conflict and I’m freaking out!”

He told me to calm down, he told me it would work out. I suspect that when he hung up the phone he threw up.

All I can say is god bless Ben Affleck. Once both of us were potentially going to be part of the broadcast, Warner Brothers agreed that to make it work, they would hire a private jet (!) to take us from LA to Atlanta immediately following the ceremony. Player WHAA—I can’t pull that off—I was super stoked.

The unglamorous reality of this situation was that in the back of the car that took me to the Academy Awards was a suitcase packed with a travel toothbrush, cotton socks and underwear, an old rain jacket (Atlanta was due for a storm), my laptop, and a week’s supply of sweatpants, a.k.a. two pairs of sweatpants.

My dress that year was a custom peach gown. It was temporarily constructed with a thin cord that tied the neckline of the dress together, but was designed to incorporate a diamond collar necklace. Having a diamond necklace hold up your dress is nerve-wracking but sexy as fuck, and I would give the experience a ten out of ten. However, just to make sure that nothing malfunctioned, once the dress was on me, my stylist had to sew it to the necklace. This process was about fifteen minutes of being occasionally pricked by a needle with my head tilted awkwardly to one side. Still sexy, still loving it. Being sewn into a diamond necklace is not a thing you are allowed to be annoyed over in real life.

I arrived early since I was in the opening number and had to change clothes. The red carpet can get hectic as showtime approaches, but having a reason to be there before the rush meant
there were fewer bodies and less stress. It was almost relaxing, but eerie, like being in a slaughterhouse before the cattle are brought in. I walked the carpet in my pretty, flowing gown. I was very happy to be out of the crash position, and nothing malfunctioned, so I went backstage to change. My stylist met me in my dressing room and slowly cut me out of my dress and necklace. Still sexy, still loving it.

I got into my Cinderella costume, had a quick hair change, and started warming up. I could hear Adam Levine and John Legend warming up in the echoey halls, and I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing. But Jack Black was in the room next door and he started a casual conversation through the thin wall. We lobbed jokes back and forth, which calmed my nerves. Jack may share the Clooney gene for spotting and preventing a potential downward spiral.

I stood backstage and waited for my cue. I would put this moment in the top three scariest of my life. Even writing about it makes me queasy. The number of my heroes sitting in the Dolby on Oscar night was almost comical. I wasn’t worried about the millions of people watching at home; I was afraid I was going to fall on my ass in front of Oprah.

My cue came and I ran onstage. I sang my first line to the audience and got entrance applause—entrance applause, motherfucker! Hot crowd, I love it! Then I turned to sing my second line to Neil. Lovely Neil. Seeing him made my anxiety drop. No matter what happened, having this guy as a parachute meant we’d be fine. We sang our silly bits to each other, and then Jack Black came on and absolutely destroyed the place.

The hard part was over for me by this point and I got to fully enjoy his amazing comedic and vocal stylings. My last bit was a gag where I scream at Jack to “Beat it!” and throw Cinderella’s slipper after him as he exits.

In rehearsals, the problem was often that I didn’t throw the shoe far enough and it was unclear that Jack was being attacked. Performance adrenaline led to an overcorrection, and I threw the shoe clear offstage. Neil and I couldn’t tell if it was offstage from where we were, but we were nervous. The next piece was supposed to be Neil walking to my shoe, picking it up, and handing it back to me. The music started up again and Neil headed toward the opposite side of the stage, scanned the ground, and turned back in a graceful loop. Lovely, consummately professional, Neil skated back to me and took both my hands and looked into my eyes like,
I guess you’re exiting half barefoot, sugar.
We took our final breath as song partners and I was on my way offstage. Hopefully, no one knew that wasn’t the plan.

I walked to my dressing room in a haze trailed by a wardrobe girl and a few stage managers, got out of my Cinderella costume, sat down in my underwear, and had a drink. Finally I squeaked, “The shoe wasn’t supposed to go offstage.”

A chorus of people assured me they hadn’t noticed anything wrong, and I believed them, because what else was I going to do?

I got back into my peach dress and, once again, my stylist sewed me into the necklace. Still sexy, still loving it. Or at least,
liking
it very much and feeling very appreciative for this moment in my life. I had another drink and got ready to present an award with Kevin Hart. I asked him, “May I take your arm?” and we walked onstage.

I was allowed to stay until Ben presented his award since the plane couldn’t take off without him. I sat in the audience and watched Lady Gaga perform. Her seats were right next to mine, but while she was onstage her parents moved up and sat in them to watch her. I imagine that Lady Gaga has done a lot of things that confuse her parents, no matter how supportive they may be. Watching Lady Gaga’s
parents
watch Lady Gaga nail a musical tribute to Julie Andrews was extraordinary. When Ms. Andrews herself joined their daughter onstage, their pride almost took solid form next to me.

The last thing I got to see was John Legend and Common perform “Glory.” I had seen them perform it at the Grammys earlier that month (yeah, guess what, I’m a big deal) but something special was happening in the auditorium that night. Maybe it was having their cast and crew there, maybe Oprah really does make every room more magical. Chris Pine’s single tear was no bullshit.

Just before Ben presented his award, I slipped out and headed to the pickup point. I had to walk back through the red carpet, this time jarringly empty. I got in the car and headed straight to the airport. It didn’t matter if the dress got wrinkled now, so I could bend at the waist like a normal human and the ride was very comfortable.