Scrappy Little Nobody

by Anna Kendrick

  For the most part, though, I was happy with my sartorial choices. I thought I looked cool. Maybe I did. Or maybe I looked homeless. Either way, it didn’t occur to me that adults who weren’t auditioning or on a date could wear decent clothes. I once went to dinner with Aubrey Plaza and when she showed up in a skirt and a little white blazer, I thought, Is she going somewhere after this?

  Enter the Stylist

  The Twilight premiere was my first experience with a stylist. Actually, he was more a friend of a friend who told me he could convince some less-reputable showrooms that he was a stylist, but he was willing to work for free, so the job was his! He got me three dresses: the pink one was too small, the silver one made me look like the world’s saddest sex robot, and the black one . . . sort of fit. We decided on the black one.

  After the premiere, a costume designer friend told me he’d seen a picture of me in a magazine. “You looked cute, you were wearing this kind of kooky black dress.” Kooky? “Yeah, it had a ruffle around the collar and a kind of kooky bell sleeve.” It had a ruffle around the collar? It had sleeves? All I had noticed was that it was a black dress. And it fit me. And it didn’t make me look like C-3PO’s slave wife. I had thought of it as the “safe” option, as a “little black dress.” Turns out someone who knew stuff about clothes immediately identified it as “eccentric.” Lucky for me, he seemed charmed by it. I’d gotten away with “taking a risk” on my first real red carpet. Also, I was the thirty-seventh-most-important character in the Twilight movies, so no one gave a shit anyway.

  When Up in the Air was chosen to premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, Paramount Pictures hired a professional stylist for me. I suspect word had gotten back to them that I enjoyed dressing like a teenager who lived in her car, and while that was spectacularly endearing, it would be in their best interest to have someone help me dress like an adult woman. I wanted to do whatever I was supposed to do to promote a movie of that caliber, and I was excited about the prospect of playing dress-up in free clothes instead of begrudgingly spending money I needed for Panda Express at Bebe whenever I got invited to something.

  Since the movie wasn’t out yet, and to fashion people indie films don’t “count,” my stylist was effectively working with someone who had no credits. To be honest, I don’t understand how styling works to this day and I’ve given up trying to figure it out. I think part of the ambiguity comes from the stylist wanting to protect you from the harsh realities of the fashion world. If I mention in an email that I think some designer makes especially beautiful dresses, and my stylist never gets back to me about it, I can assume she didn’t want to say, “No, honey, that designer is a huge deal and you’ve been in one movie that hasn’t come out yet.” So you both pretend the email never happened.

  The first time I went to my stylist’s house and pawed through a rack of dresses, it felt like Christmas. When I tried them all on, it felt more like Christmas without presents, food, or alcohol. Her distinctly unfamous client was not a big selling point for designers to give up their best stuff. You can only try on so many olive-green paisley numbers before you seriously consider creating a dress from toilet paper and bedsheets. But buried in this mountain of lamé and brocade, there was one gorgeous soft-pink Marchesa. I still don’t know how she got it. I don’t know if the dress was lined with asbestos, or if they owed her a favor, or if she stole it out of a pile reserved for Anne Hathaway. I had no credits but we got a Marchesa. And the fucker fit. (Also, I learned that things which I thought fit didn’t fit. “Fit” to me now means: it looks more like a piece of clothing than a garbage bag, and it can be made to “fit” with extensive tailoring.)

  We decided to go with the pink dress, and after we got it tailored and found a bra that didn’t show, my stylist asked me about shoes. She thought it was important that I wear a pair of expensive shoes—not just dressy-looking shoes, actual expensive shoes. It turned out magazines were going to decide how seriously to take me based on whether I wore designer shoes or shoes that looked nice but didn’t cost enough to feed a family for a month, like some kind of phony. She came to my apartment with three pairs of shoes in a shopping bag and said we should pick one pair and she’d return the rest.

  “The Louboutins are a little pricier than the others, but it’s your first big premiere, and I think they’re really special.”

  “Okay, how much are those?”

  “One thousand ninety-nine.”

  Dollars? A thousand dollars?! That’s more than my rent! Like, a lot more! Maybe you’ve noticed that I live with two dudes and sleep in an Ikea twin bed. Or has living in a world of luxury for so long left you unable to recognize the signature lines and craftsmanship of the Malm collection? (For context: my stylist was earning more to dress me for Up in the Air–related events than I did for making the actual movie.) There was a feeling from the people around me at that time that although I hadn’t made much money yet, things were about to start going so well that huge checks were right around the corner! I should spend whatever I had to, even if it seemed imprudent, because I’d have tons of money in just a few months! I’m glad I was such a tightfisted bitch, because the money didn’t follow for about two years. In fact, Twilight was the only thing keeping me above water. I’ve said in the past that without that series I would have been evicted, and people think I’m joking. Nope. Me and my Oscar nom would have been living in my car. Which is a charming story now, but at the time, I did not find it funny.

  The shoe situation, though, seemed like a necessary evil. Apparently, I was now trying to convince the world that I was a movie star, and movie stars had companies like Louboutin begging them to wear their shoes! And to pretend that that was happening, I would have to buy a pair. I paid a thousand dollars to trick people into thinking I got free shoes.

  I wore the shoes in Toronto with my awesome and inexplicable Marchesa dress. No one seemed to care one way or the other about what was on my feet, but maybe it’s one of those “you only notice it if it’s Aldo” kind of things. I still have those shoes. I don’t think I’ve worn them since. If they go out of style, or I join a cult that eschews material goods, or if both my feet are eaten off by the army of cats I’ll eventually own, I’ll never get rid of those shoes. Yes, it’s the ultimate irony that I can now afford a pair of shoes like that, but designers let me borrow them for free. When you think about it, all these celebrities are borrowing shoes that have been worn by someone else before them. Like bowling shoes. So the joke’s on us.

  Yep. Two inanimate objects. Truly the stuff of nightmares.

  That story makes my stylist sound crazy, which she wasn’t; she was just used to the fashion world. I’d encountered this behavior before when I did a photo shoot for Teen Vogue with the cast of Rocket Science. I loved the shoes they put me in, and the magazine’s stylist said, “Oh, they’re actually from that designer’s diffusion line, so they’re not that expensive—I think they’re like six or seven hundred.” Cool. That’s when I started cutting the labels out of the clothes I wore to fashion shoots, lest they see an Old Navy tag as I undress and kick me out of their studio.

  A Good Sport

  A few nights before the Oscars I was invited to a party thrown by Louis Vuitton. When a fashion house throws a party, they send clothing options to the invitees so that no one shows up in Chanel and rips apart the space-time continuum. My stylist was beaming as she showed me a beautiful white coat and a pleated tartan minidress. I put it on and immediately said, “Oh my god, it’s like a high-end slutty schoolgirl costume. It’s fucking amazing.” It was weird but it was cool and I liked it. I looked like a luxury tramp and it was a nice change of pace from what I’d been wearing during all the Oscars press. When I got to the party and started to take off my coat, the woman next to me looked at my dress and said, “Is that what they sent you to wear? Aw. You’re a good sport.”

  I put down my drink; I needed both hands to tie my coat back up tight enough that it wouldn’t show a square centimeter of m
y dress. I spent the rest of the night readjusting my collar higher on my neck, and only when the house photographer stopped me in the hallway on my way out did I take the coat off, praying that no one would pass by.

  All the photos that ran in fashionland the next day were of me in a voluminous white coat. I met with my stylist to look at Oscar dresses and said, “Oh man, you won’t believe what I did last night.”

  “No, I saw.” She was a little terse.

  “Right . . . It’s just that this woman, like, said I was a ‘good sport’ for wearing the dress, and it felt like a dig and—”

  “She said that? She saw what you were wearing and felt moved to say something passive-aggressive to you?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  “Wow,” she said with a smirk. “She felt so provoked by a fucking dress that she took a swipe at you. That’s pathetic. Man, if you’re messing up someone’s day with what you’re wearing, you’re doing something right.”

  I liked that. That even someone from the fashion world was like, Dude, it’s just fashion. It’s supposed to be fun.

  No one had prepared me for this part. I didn’t know I was going to have to learn about fashion. I thought I knew plenty about fashion. I knew gowns were more formal than short dresses, skirts were more formal than pants, and leaving the house in just socks and a sports bra would get you arrested. Now you’re telling me there’s more to fashion than finding a dress that shows enough boob to distract from your face?

  I struggle with fashion, because growing up the way I did, it felt like something explicitly designed to distinguish people with money from people like me. Reading a magazine that said I was “supposed to” have some new bag or dress I couldn’t afford felt like crap. Now I get to wear these beautiful dresses and it’s hard to reconcile.

  The first time I went to a fashion show, I went backstage afterward to meet the designer. I expected her to tell me the dress was really intended for someone less pasty and walk away. But she was nervous. She was almost beside herself. She was asking me what I thought of the show and telling me she wasn’t going to read reviews until the next day so that no matter what, she could at least enjoy the fruits of her labor for the rest of the night. She’d studied and worked for years; she’d crafted the pieces meticulously with the best materials and construction. This was her art, and I was looking at it like a corporate conspiracy to make me feel insecure.

  Fashion is an art form and an expression of self. Creative outlets are hard to find, and if fashion is yours, go deep with it, baby; I can’t wait to see you shine. But if you’re feeling crappy because you accidentally scrolled through Gigi Hadid’s Instagram, remember, it’s just fashion. It’s supposed to be fun.

  Now, going to events that are important to me or to colleagues is part of my life. I’m grateful to have anything to celebrate in my world, and if current custom dictates that I look halfway decent, I don’t want to disrespect that. I want to honor the event that I’m at and the designer who allows me to wear their work. I’m glad I got to see the vulnerable person behind an intimidating fashion show. I’m also grateful that someone shook me out of my protective shell of self-righteousness. It’s healthy. Even though I like my shell very much. There will always be people who use fashion as a status symbol. But I don’t wanna be friends with those people anyway.

  Oh, Honey

  Now I know just enough to know that I don’t know anything.

  I learned there’s something called bias cut, which means that it’s going to look terrible on you unless you’re Gisele. I learned that nude shoes make your legs look longer. And I learned that before going out you should shine a very bright light at your crotch to make sure you can’t see your puss.

  Short girls: get it tailored. For GOD’S SAKE, get it tailored! The wardrobe designer on Pitch Perfect, Sal Pérez, hammered this home for me because we don’t wear business clothes or silk dresses in those films, we wear T-shirts and denim jackets, and still, alterations are made. I used to just deal with the extra fabric that bunched at the bottom of my jeans until Sal had me try on a pair of Rag & Bone. I flew out of the dressing room. “This is amazing! It fits so well, even in the inseam!” I admired myself in the mirror, then sheepishly asked, “Does it fit because it’s a ‘cigarette’ cut?” Sal put his hand on my shoulder. “Oh, honey, it’s a capri.” So, non-capri pants might need hemming, but it’s totally worth it. Just because it’s not a luxury item doesn’t mean you’re a jerk for getting it altered.

  Also, take in the sleeve! That’s the BEST trick I’ve learned for getting tops and jackets to look right on us shorties. Don’t just take the sleeve up at the wrist, take IN the width of the sleeve. It’s a game changer. The same is true of men’s suits. Men, even more so than women, seem to think that getting something to look “good” is about going up in price, but tell your boyfriend to get a less expensive suit and have it tailored. Please, as a service to me.

  Wear the Spanx. You might not want to squeeze them over your ass in the morning, but when you see that mac and cheese at lunch (do it, you beautiful monster) you’ll be glad they’re there, doing the lord’s work.

  Never, ever, even if she is on the brink of hypothermia, let your taller, blonder friend borrow your favorite pea coat. You look good in that coat. But she will look better. And you’ll never be able to unsee it. (This is not based on me, or a Topshop coat, or my friend Lea.)

  If you want “real” fashion advice, you should look up Alexa Chung or Olivia Palermo, who, while they are good at lots of other stuff, are known for wearing clothes really well. I would argue that the most honest fashion advice they could give would be, “Be tall, thin, and gorgeous, and have a monthly budget of around five hundred dollars for maintaining your hair,” but if you look them up I’m sure that every interviewer has asked them, “What’s your best fashion advice?” and they have answered, “Wear what makes you feel confident.” By the way, who has that helped? What girl is out there thinking, Dammit, I’ve been wearing my least-favorite articles of clothing, because I thought you were supposed to feel dumpy and shy. Clothes AREN’T supposed to make you want to avoid human contact? Thank you, Olivia Palermo, thank you. (I’m just being shitty; it’s a lame question because there’s no good answer. These girls have their QUOTE™ down and they stick to it. Keep climbin’, ladies.)

  Sidebar: The only reason I feel bad about bringing them up is that at some point Alexa and Olivia will be asked on some red carpet, “What do you think of Anna Kendrick’s burn in her book?” and they’ll have to go, “Who?” and then their publicist will tell them and they will have to say something like, “Oh, she’s entitled to her opinion,” or “She’s obviously just kidding,” or hopefully “What a cunt,” and then the fun REALLY begins.

  I’m trying to have fun. I get to wear fancy clothes and I get to have my hair and makeup done, and being a little brat about it is stupid. I also have to wear fancy clothes and have my hair and makeup done. And anything in the world that you have to do can become tiresome. If you had to play with a puppy every day—okay, that’s not a good example; that would always be fun. But someone poking your eye with a makeup brush is not as fun as a puppy; you’ll just have to take my word for it.

  making movies is a fool’s errand

  I need a lot of sleep. More sleep than I’d like. I wish I could be one of those people who thrives on five hours a night, but I really need seven or eight—just to function. I’ll happily take nine. Ten, if you’re offering. I’m actually gonna lie down for a minute.

  Okay, that was nice. Maybe I need more iron in my diet. I bring it up because on a film set, sleep becomes the ultimate commodity. The hours are fucking bananas. We’re certainly not curing cancer, but man do we stay at work like we’re trying.

  Portrait of a professional with energy drink, 4 a.m.

  All you do when you’re making a movie is sleep and go to work. You’re staying in a hotel or a rented apartment, miles and often several time zones away from anyone you know. It’s
hard to see outside the little world you’re in. You can’t get perspective because for the duration of the shoot, nothing else exists. So you are at the mercy of the people around you. The group you are working with (a.k.a. your only waking companions) will dictate whether you are going to spend a few months euphoric or miserable.

  Sometimes it’s awesome. When you know there’s a ticking clock on your relationships, it’s fun to get way too close way too fast. Why pace yourself? You won’t even have time to get sick of each other! You jump into intense friendships and it’s bittersweet and wonderful. Sometimes you don’t like the people you’re working with. It’s temporary, but facing another sixteen-hour block with people you don’t like can feel insurmountable even when you know it’s only for a few months. Getting on Skype with your best friend to talk shit helps, but you gotta go to sleep and do it all over again in six hours, so make your shit talk count!

  I try not to let it, but my personal feelings can affect how I approach filming. I once got into a debate with a director because I didn’t understand why I would kiss the actor in the scene with me. I felt like there was simply no motivation for them to kiss in that moment. The director pointed out that we were playing boyfriend and girlfriend and couples tend to . . . kiss. Oh, right! So we kissed. But I wasn’t happy about it!

  It’s also hard to gauge how well a scene is working if you don’t get along with someone in it. Once you know someone is an asshole, it’s hard to find anything they say funny, charming, or poignant. I find myself thinking, I wouldn’t believe this guy if he warned me about an impending nuclear fallout; he’s an asshole.