Reese Witherspoon Has Always Been Wild

Hollywood just refused to see it.

Photos Courtesy of MGM / Paramount / Fox Searchlight / Everett; Chris Ritter / BuzzFeed

Think of Reese Witherspoon without makeup. She’s been walking for days — traversing hundreds of miles. Without water, she might die. Her face is dirty and tanned, her lips are parched, and her eyes stare forward, at nothing, in startling blue clarity.

It’s how you’ll see Witherspoon in Wild. But it’s also how we saw her in A Far Off Place, which was released 21 years ago, when she was 17 years old. They’re very different stories — Wild is set along the Pacific Crest Trail; A Far Off Place sends Witherspoon to the Kalahari Desert. This is not to say that Wild is derivative; rather that the months of media claims that Witherspoon’s “gritty” and “honest” turn as Cheryl Strayed in the new movie offers up some new, heretofore unseen Reese are simply unfounded.

Like so much Hollywood publicity, it’s just a catchy claim that’s somewhat blind to history. This “wild” valence of the Witherspoon star persona has been present from the very beginning of her three-decade career, manifested in a cluster of films that live large in the VHS-defined memories of most of us who were teens in the ‘90s. There’s A Far Off Place, but also the 1991 coming-of-age super classic Man in the Moon, the 1996 super-creepy Mark Wahlberg star-maker Fear, playing the ultimate in sexy dirty in Freeway, and what, in my mind, will go down as the definitive proof of Witherspoon’s intelligence as an actor: 1999’s Election.

That the Hollywood publicity machine has elided this early Witherspoon underlines just how efficiently — and, oftentimes destructively — it flattens the star image. A star becomes the least common denominator of their attributes and roles: Tom Hanks is nothing but nice, Matthew McConaughey is everything tan and smarmy, Sandra Bullock is steely cute, Will Smith is cheerful, unthreatening black masculinity, and so on. They play variations on those roles, on repeat, on the screen, and their “private” lives are molded to reflect the same overarching values.

That univocality of those messages — this is what this star means — is the source of superstardom. It’s so legible, easy to understand. Some stars escape the flattening by retreating into “their art” — Meryl Streep and Daniel Day-Lewis, for example, have chosen such diverse projects, and kept their personal lives so relatively private that the only thing they “mean” is acting.

But for most, they must settle into an image — oftentimes one not of their choosing — and decide whether to hang out for the ride or rail against it. Chris Evans, for example, was slotted into a very precise sort of future with his casting in Captain America, but has denounced it; Zac Efron unsuccessfully attempted to leave his teen idol image behind before circling back to it; Miley Cyrus has made her contemporary career out of acting out the antithesis to her Hannah Montana image.

Sometimes, as in the case with Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp, or Angelina Jolie, the strategy works. They change the conversation of their stardom from the superficial (innocence, beauty) to the cerebral (complexity, talent). They direct; they play ugly; they take on charity causes. But that’s the privilege of the contemporary superstar: When they’re rich enough, they can stop taking the roles that made them famous. They can afford, both in fiscal and career management terms, to alter the way people think of them — a club into which Witherspoon has only recently elbowed her way.

That’s a privilege that was never available to even the most behemoth of classic Hollywood stars. They arrived at their studios as raw material and, through the magic of the studio machine, emerged as ready-made stars with new names, biographies, hobbies, and interview talking points. Margarita Carmen Cansino became a femme fatale named Rita Hayworth; Roy Harold Scherer Jr. became the flannel-shirted heterosexual ideal Rock Hudson. Attempts to break free from those preset images often resulted in scandal (Ingrid Bergman) or backlash (Marilyn Monroe).

A star could, however, take a role that was significantly outside of their image wheelhouse, but only as a means to reinforce that image. Against type, in other words, to reinforce type. Bette Davis, whose image was that of a slightly bitchy but ultimately hardworking and kind New Englander, played super evil — like, kill-your-husband evil — in Little Foxes, which earned her an Oscar nomination. Davis was an amazing actor, but the Academy recognition was, at least in part, due to how effectively she diverged from what was assumed to be her “true” self, aka the type of role she played in every other film.

We see the same thing in contemporary Hollywood, in which performances are lauded when they manifest the epitome of the star’s essence (Bullock in The Blind Side; Brad Pitt in Moneyball) or mark such a significant departure (Amy Adams in American Hustle; Jared Leto in Dallas Buyer’s Club) that they effectively re-establish the integrity of the original, core image.

Which is all to say that it’s really, really difficult for a star to break out of the mold that’s been created for them. The conservative logic of contemporary Hollywood prevents it: A star is only valuable inasmuch as they are a static commodity; studios will bank on products in which the star promises to reproduce that known commodity value but balk at those who threaten to compromise it.

There’s a reason, in other words, that stars like McConaughey, Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Vince Vaughn get mired in the rom-com death spiral of deeply shitty movies: Studios would rather green-light a sure thing, no matter how horrible, so long as it reproduces the roles of past hits. In this way, each performance becomes a slightly less vivid reproduction of the one before; a copy of a copy of a wearied, worn out, once-charismatic star.

20th Century Fox / Everett

The last nine years of Reese Witherspoon’s career have exemplified this slow degradation. Her image as the perky innocent first began to coalesce in 1999’s Cruel Intentions, was solidified in 2001 with Legally Blonde, and was then ossified the following year in Sweet Home Alabama, the mid-budget, totally inoffensive, sometimes adorable rom-com beloved by everyone who’s ever watched a movie on cable on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Witherspoon’s character Melanie in Alabama is tough, sophisticated, and New York on the outside, but soft and Southern in the inside. The “real” Melanie just wanted to shed her high heels and black pencil skirt and hang out with her high school sweetheart, drink beer, and maybe have some babies — a sentiment mirrored in Witherspoon’s own life, as she married her Cruel Intentions co-star Ryan Phillippe at the age of 23, and gave birth to a daughter, Ava, later that year.

She reprised, and thus reified, that image in 2003’s Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde, played a slightly more conniving version of Sweet Home Alabama’s New York Melanie in Vanity Fair the following year, and won an Oscar for playing the much beleaguered June Carter in 2005’s Walk the Line. Her performance is excellent, but it’s not a revelatory one so much as one based on a much beloved historical figure in addition to being serious, and thus, in Hollywood logic, worthy of being taken seriously.

Witherspoon’s post-Oscar career can only be characterized as banal. There’s a high-minded bomb of a thriller (2007’s Rendition), a surprisingly lifeless adaptation of an immensely popular book about the circus (2011’s Water for Elephants) and a laundry list of highly forgettable rom-com-ish dreck: 2005’s Just Like Heaven, 2008’s Four Christmases, 2010’s How Do You Know, and 2012’s This Means War. It was at this point that a New Yorker profile of Ben Stiller grouped Witherspoon with a list of actors, including Mel Gibson, Demi Moore, Russell Crowe, and Keanu Reeves, “who were big stars 10 years ago,” but no longer.

Witherspoon read the profile and took action. She told Vogue earlier this year, “It’s not that the roles dried up … They just weren’t as dynamic or interesting as anything I felt I could do,” which reads like code for, “They were the same damn thing over and over again.” She was, according to one director, too “Southern and sweet and huge” of a star. Hence the image renovation, or what Vogue calls “the girl next door find[ing] her edge.”

That “edge” includes roles as the antithesis of America’s sweetheart opposite McConaughey in 2013’s Mud, one of several films that put McConaughey’s career rejuvenation into motion, and dressed down for a supporting role in this year’s The Good Lie. The movie told the story of four Sudanese refugees and, after a premiere at the Toronto Film Festival, quietly disappeared from theaters.

Still, those films were but a prelude to Witherspoon’s “new” image, first as a producer of this year’s highly anticipated and hotly debated Gone Girl, then as the driving force behind the adaptation of Wild, which she read and pursued before it became a global phenomenon. Once passive to the predetermined trajectory of her image and career, Witherspoon is now regularly described as literally and figuratively owning it.

But similar to what I argued in my “alternative reading” of the McConnaissance, that component of Witherspoon’s image has been there all along. In 1999’s Man on the Moon, she’s a stubborn tomboy; in A Far Off Place, her sidekick, Harry (Ethan Embry), is the bumbling, incompetent damsel in distress to her highly skilled Nonnie as they make their way across 2,000 miles of desert. In both movies, she’s a teen, but she’s by no means the teen that would grow up to become Elle Woods: With her makeup-less face and utilitarian attitude toward boys, this early picture personality is far more JLaw with The Hunger Games franchise than ditzy blonde in a bubblegum-pink power suit.

Witherspoon’s first high-profile “adult” role was opposite Mark Wahlberg, at his most sociopathic, in Fear. She played fairly girl-next-door, but with the exact sort of sexual edge that critics ascribe to her turn in Wild. Mention “the roller coaster scene” — in which Witherspoon guides Wahlberg’s hand while he brings her to orgasm while “Wild Horses” plays — to a woman of a certain age, and she will know exactly what you’re talking about.

And then there’s Election, in which Witherspoon satirizes the sort of buttoned up, perfectionist persona in which her future films would mire her. Usually stars lampoon their images after they’ve come to define them, but Election shows a weird sort of prescience about what was to come in Witherspoon’s career, as if director Alexander Payne saw exactly what Hollywood would do with the type of precocious, heart-faced girl whose parents gave her the nickname “Little Type A.”

The brilliance of Witherspoon’s performance in Election lies in its illumination of the embittered underside of perfection: The harder you hew to its prescribed boundaries, the movie suggests, the crazier you become. Not only is it the truth to the lie of Witherspoon’s future performances, but it also suggests an intelligence about what it means to be a woman in the world that a film like Legally Blonde, for all of its Harvard law degrees, obscures.

Witherspoon’s performance in Wild has the same rawness, anger, bravery, and vulnerability of her performances in those early films, many of which have been largely forgotten, but they nonetheless evidence her startling, invigorating capacity as an actor. It’s not as if Witherspoon, herself, didn’t realize as much: “When people underestimate me, it’s actually a comfortable place for me,” she told Vogue. “Oh, that’s what you think I am; well, no I’m not. I’m a complex human being. I have many different shades.”

While those sides are perhaps most visible in her earlier work, it’s not as if they disappeared when she started playing rom-com heroines. As Gawker’s Caity Weaver brilliantly pointed out last year, Witherspoon’s “private” life can be divided into two spheres: the proper Southern belle, who writes prompt thank-you cards and looks great in modest mom shorts and goes on three-mile runs, and the darker, “terrifying” Reese, whom Weaver dubs “Laura Jean,” Witherspoon’s birth name.

If Reese loves posting inspirational quotes and photos of her shoes in falling leaves on Instagram, then Laura Jean wears a dress that shows a lot of sideboob to a big celebrity function, gets drunk, and tells a supermodel in the elevator that the “most important thing in a name, for a girl” is “that a man can whisper it into his pillow.”

Laura Jean also got wasted and mouthed off to cops when her husband was pulled over for DUI; Reese apologized sincerely for it on Good Morning America. Laura Jean drops the f-bomb constantly; Reese dresses up to walk through a parking lot. Laura Jean stars in Wild; Reese clunks her way through Four Christmases.

Of course, there aren’t two Reese Witherspoons — there’s just society’s generalized incapacity to allow a woman to contain multitudes, especially if they’re seemingly at odds. The problem with the virgin/whore dichotomy, after all, isn’t virgins, or whores, but the idea that a woman couldn’t possibly contain vestiges of both, and embrace them equally. After all, that’s what makes a text like Wild so exquisite: its ability to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable or, as Strayed puts it in the passage that ends both the memoir and the film, “What if I was sorry, but if I could go back in time I wouldn’t do anything differently that I had done?”

MGM / Everett

Hollywood loves a comeback, and will certainly embrace this one from Witherspoon. The reviews of Wild, in which she appears in nearly every scene, are glowing, and predictions of another Oscar are gaining strength. The irony, of course, is that the powers that have and will continue to celebrate her performance are, in large part, the same ones that would’ve prevented it from happening.

The lesson of Witherspoon’s career — and, by extension, contemporary Hollywood stardom — is thus startling in its simplicity: The very image that shot you to stardom will, unchecked, also lead you to the end of it. The solution, however, isn’t necessarily to abandon it altogether — there’s something in any superstar image, after all, that has and will always resonate. Rather, it’s to expand, and amplify, the valences that have been there all along.

Reese Witherspoon has always been some sort of wild. It just took a film of her own producing for us to remember.




Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/annehelenpetersen/wild-reese

The Trouble With “It Girls”

We’ve used the term for nearly a century. But what does it tell us about the way we label women and their work?

Matt Baron / BEImages / Getty Images / BuzzFeed News

On the cover of the February issue of Vanity Fair, Rosamund Pike gives her best icy blue-eyed Grace Kelly. The cover’s intro — “From Bond Girl to Gone Girl to 2015’s It Girl” — is banal: Pike’s beauty here is the real draw.

But still, there’s that phrase, “It girl”: one that Vanity Fair wielded back in 1998 for the then-up-and-coming Gretchen Mol, who struggled so mightily to make good on the promise that the New York Times dubbed it the “Vanity Fair Cover Curse,” and that Vogue uses in its own February cover story on Fifty Shades of Grey star Dakota Johnson, “who exudes the effortless cool of an It Girl.”

Vanity Fair

Vogue

Vanity Fair

 

In naming someone an It girl, a publication is either hedging a bet (Gretchen Mol will be all that anyone’s talking about in 1998) or trendspotting (Cara Delevingne is everywhere in New York; you’ll be seeing her everywhere else soon). In this contemporary iteration, “It girl” has come to mean some cross of a new, young, generally hot thing known for attending parties and movie premieres and a new, young, generally hot thing who makes her name in a sphere (politics, journalism, golf, rap) broadly delimited to men. It’s a seemingly safe way to declare someone as worthy of your attention without actually articulating what, exactly, merits that attention. These girls are it: no matter that the antecedent to “it” remains unknown.

So what’s the fascination with naming — and reading about — prospective It girls? The term may seem like a cliche, ambiguous, employed out of editorial imprecision, and it certainly is many, if not all, of those things. But the century-long history of the It girl, coupled with a remarkable usage spike over the last decade, points to a broader and enduring trend in which writers flag a certain type of behavior, demeanor, or ambition, name it, and, in so doing, map a certain type of (limited, limiting) career and behavior trajectory in which the woman is forever marked by both her gender and her ineffable thing-ness. There’s no such moniker, after all, as an “It woman.”

The modern It girl age can probably be traced to a seminal 1994 New Yorker profile of Chloë Sevigny in which Jay McInerney dubbed the 19-year-old “the It Girl with a street-smart style and down-low attitude.” The article’s lede set the scene for this ‘90s version of the It girl, which is to say, part socialite, part fashion plate, part indie oddity:

It’s weird, this happens all the time. Chloë Sevigny is sitting at one of the outdoor tables at Stingy Lulu’s on St. Mark’s Place just off Avenue A, absorbing a mixed green salad and devouring the just-out September Vogue. A black girl and an Asian girl huddle anxiously on the corner a few yards away, checking her out. The two are about Chloë’s age, which is nineteen, and they seem to be debating whether or not to approach. Do they recognize her from the Sonic Youth video—the one filmed in Marc Jacobs’ showroom, which was kind of a spoof of the whole grunge thing—or did they catch her modeling the X-Girl line last spring? Maybe they saw her photo in Details, the ones taken by Larry Clark, who has just cast Chloë in his new movie, “Kids.”

Sevigny in 1994 Time Life Pictures / Getty Images

Sevigny wasn’t beautiful, exactly, or sexy, per se; she was different, and indifferent, and that’s what made her It. Sevigny’s It-ness manifested a particular sort of abrasive, even erudite hipness. So much about her seemed to scream “fuck you, I contain multitudes,” yet the profile attempts, as profiles must, to unite that multiplicity under a single theme: It-ness. In so doing, the New Yorker transformed an unruly woman like Sevigny, with her nontraditional looks and unfamiliar club-kid ways, into a digestible rhetorical pile of It.

And thus began the beginning of the It girl deluge. Entertainment Weekly started a yearly “It List” cover in 1997, and the Times used it for another potentially threateningly different young woman (Fiona Apple) and, in “The Making of an It Girl” (1998), Keri Russell. The Guardian put it to work for “professional posh person” Tara Palmer-Tomkinson in 2000; in 2001, the character of Amelie was an It girl (Globe and Mail); in 2002, it was Parker Posey, snowboarder Tara Dakides, Chelsea Clinton, and Italian Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi; in 2003, the WNBA’s Sue Bird and “Almost It Girl” Jaime Presley; in 2004, Belinda Stronach, CEO of Magna International, Lindsay Lohan, and Joanna Newsom.

Then it gets so ridiculous I can only offer you a semi-chronological It bomb:

Feist, Michelle Monaghan, war zone It girl Lara Logan, Michelle Wie, Margherita Missoni, “dewy It girl of spirituality” Marianne Williamson, lit’s It girl Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, tennis It girl Nicole Vaidisova, Carey Mulligan, Katherine Heigl, “It girl of the social network scene” Facebook, opera’s It girl Anna Netrebko, Pakistani politician Benazir Bhutto, George Clooney’s ex-girlfriend Sarah Larson, gymnast Shawn Johnson, The New Yorker cover of the Obamas fist-bumping, “It girl for the poorer, darker Russia” Agniya Kuznetsova, Alexa Chung (who published a book simply entitled It), Betty White, Blake Lively, CBC radio personality Frances Bay, Freida Pinto, “lesbian It girl” Ruby Rose, Frances Bean, San Francisco It girl Rose Pak, Elizabeth Olsen, Zooey Deschanel, “Russia’s Scandalous It Girl Kseniya Sobchak,” Carly Rae Jepsen, Lena Dunham, Gabby Douglas, “fashion’s new It girl…and boy Andrej Pejic,” Sofia Vergara, Suki Waterhouse, Annie Lennox’s daughter Tali, Kerry Washington, reality star Gigi Hadid, Lupita Nyong’o, Jennifer Lawrence, Pantone’s Color of the Year “Marsala,” model Cara Delevingne, Rita Ora, Kendall Jenner, hip-hop’s Jhené Aiko, “indie It girl” Aubrey Plaza, Ariana Grande, “director-DJ-designer” Vashtie Kola, softball player Mo’ne Davis, Emma Watson, Felicity Jones, Dakota Johnson, the Nine West It girl tote, French actress Clémence Poésy, Gossip Girl character Jenny Humphrey, “Piperlime’s new holiday It girl” Shay Mitchell and, from Vogue in 2014 alone, slideshows of British It girls, Japanese It girls, Korean It girls, country It girls, and Parisienne It girls.

According this list, an It girl can be a serious war reporter, a fearless politician, an impressive athlete, a person of color, over 40, over 80, a color, a magazine cover, a persona who buys an $80 tote, a social networking site, an androgynous man, a celebrity scion, a model, an Oscar-winning actress, a writer, a lesbian, a person who drinks wine from a terrifically ugly glass. The It girl’s gone democratic. But to what end?

Jonathan Short/Invision / AP Jonathan Short

Theresa Bouche/Invision / AP

ASSOCIATED PRESS

 

You could argue that today’s hazy, often imprecise use of “It girl” isn’t indicative of lazy writing so much as an expanded understanding of what sex appeal, charisma, and the type of personality that can “change the chemistry of a room” might look like: women of different nationalities, sexualities, backgrounds, and careers.

That’s something worth celebrating, of course. But the persistence — or at least the resurgence — of the term in the mid-’90s also aligns with the rise of postfeminism, an ideological attitude in which the advances of second-wave feminism are traded in for the rhetoric of “choice”: freedom through self-objectification and consumption of goods, empowerment via the capacity to attract the attention of men, “girl power” in the place of systemic progress against patriarchy.

Those goals are a throwback to the 1920s understanding of female empowerment, a decade in which women reconciled freedoms enabled by suffrage, conspicuous consumption, and the entrance of women into the public sphere with the endurance of patriarchy. These “New Women,” as they were called, were “free” — to have jobs as shopgirls, to use their wages to buy things — but in a profoundly limited sense of the term.

And no one crystallized those contradictory freedoms better than Clara Bow, the original It girl. Bow was the cat’s pajamas, the bee’s knees, the real fucking deal. She was pretty, sure, but so were a lot of girls on the silent screen.

Photoplay Magazine

Motion Picture Magazine

 

She had something more: a curious and beguiling mix of sex appeal and modernity and charisma that no one really knew how to describe — save cultural commentator and author Elinor Glyn, who, over the course of the ‘20s, coined the designation of “It” and held forth as its arbiter. While some equated “It” with sex appeal, Glyn made it something more complex: “The It factor lives in the girl who doesn’t know she’s beautiful, who’s utterly without self-consciousness or pretense.”

For years, Glyn resisted attributing “It” to any single star or public figure. But then Paramount optioned her It novella, crafted a very loose adaptation thereof, and cast Clara Bow in the lead, effectively marrying her name to the concept.

Motion Picture Magazine

Watch a clip from It, and you can come close to understanding the power over audiences Bow had in 1927. I think it probably felt like watching joy, or the future, or the first time you saw a firecracker. Part of the attraction stemmed from her cool-girl antics offscreen; part was her embodiment, vis-à-vis her character in It, of a specific ethos of female liberation and consumerism, shot through with the overarching goal of marriage. It was sex appeal, but it was also just short of truly transgressive.

Because when Bow did cross the line of acceptable female behavior — stringing too many men along, gambling, drinking — is when she fell from It girl favor. In 1927, she was arguably the biggest star in the world; by 1932, having weathered a string of scandals and high-profile breakups and a truly awful tabloid smear campaign, she retreated from Hollywood completely.

Yet the mantle of It girl remained hers: At her peak, during her decline, in retrospectives and film revivals, and in the obituary of her husband, actor and Nevada lieutenant governor Rex Bell, she is invariably referred to as “It girl Clara Bow.” Even as new stars (Jean Harlow, Mae West, Ava Gardner, Lana Turner) took up the mantle of Hollywood sexpot, the press and studios resisted dubbing them the latest It girl.

Outside of Hollywood, “It girl” was used to describe criminals and what would later be referred to as femme fatales: The “It Girl of Chicago Gangs,” mentioned in the Chicago Daily Tribune (1931), was “known to the police as ‘death angel’” and “all of her suitors met death by bullets or other violence.” Or, in the newspaper Afro-American, It girl Helene Morgan’s love meant “astonishing and tragic things” for the four men who fell for her.

“It girl” could also be highly localized: The Philadelphia Tribune followed the social life of “It Girl Miss Peggy Dee” in 1937, while the industrious men of MIT made elaborate plans for “a special meter, replete with electronic tubes” for a “unique method of testing college girls, office girls, and those who are ‘at home’” to devise “the amount of ‘It’ in their make-up.”

“It” was clearly still a concept with currency — and one plebes could possess in limited, apparently quantifiable amounts — but that concept remained powerfully linked to Bow. In the 1940s, however, “It girl” took on a new valence: a smart woman, usually one of few in her field, who played by men’s rules with wit, cunning, and style. The New Yorker used it for a 1940 profile of Dorothy Thompson, the so-called first lady of American journalism, who was a foreign correspondent, wife to author Sinclair Lewis, and a widely read columnist in the years preceding World War II.

Dorothy Thompson with husband Sinclair Lewis. AP Photo

Thompson was a former suffragette and what my granddad would call a total pistol: stubborn and aggressive; sexy not for her body, but her mind. Lewis referred to the “international situation” (the burgeoning conflict in Europe) in relation to Thompson as “It,” thereby rendering her the It girl. It’s a play on the term, but it fostered a connotation of uniqueness, even brashness, that clings to contemporary uses of the phrase.

In 1946, for example, the Boston Globe called Clare Boothe Luce the “It girl of Congress,” a reference that referred not only to her status as a “glamorous representative” married to one of the most powerful publishers in the world, but also the presence of a fiercely intelligent, occasionally combative, and unequivocally beautiful woman in elected office.

During this period, the press also applied the term to various non-Hollywood spheres: Broadway’s It girl (Mabel Scott), It girl of European capitals (Una Mae), It girl of opera (Geraldine Farrar). But it wasn’t until Bow’s death in 1965 that the term was transmuted on to another type of girl.

It’s coincidence, really, that Edie Sedgwick began hanging out with Warhol the same year that Bow died. Yet the rise of Sedgwick — and the particular sort of waifish ingenue she represented — would guide another iteration of the It girl, this one marked by privilege, excess, and decline.

Sedgwick was an It girl without the specific designation: In June 1966, the New York Times grouped her with Warhol’s other “superstars”; a month later, Vogue featured her in a full-page spread, declaring her a “Youthquaker.”

The Times followed her around town, describing her antics with Warhol and Chuck Wein (“They made a scene in Paris by turning up at Castel’s with 15 rabbits and Edie clad in a white mink coat and black tights that have become her signature”) and habits (losing jewels, stripping to her bra and dancing in a pool, biting her nails). “It’s not that I’m rebelling,” she told the Times. “It’s that I’m just trying to find another way.”

Underground superstar, Youthquaker, but never an explicit It girl. She would be retrospectively dubbed as such — in the 2000s, reviews and publicity for Factory Girl, the Sienna Miller-starring film about Sedgwick, repeatedly made use of the term — but for most of the next three decades, the term was wielded only intermittently, affixed to a horse named “Bowl of Flowers,” the apparent “IT Girl of the Turf Scene,” Diana Ross (1988), young Jessica Lange (1983), and literary bête noire Tama Janowitz (1987) before the 1994 Sevigny profile sparked the It girl deluge.

In the early ‘30s, Clara Bow was forced to recognize the limitations of her freedoms when fans turned on her particular brand of sex appeal and behavior. Dance on tables, the instructions for It-ness went, but not too many tables. The label of “It girl” thus becomes a sort of rhetorical disciplinary device: a means of channeling a woman’s potential in a sexualized yet ultimately contained direction in which she attracts the gaze, but never controls it. Even the term’s application to Dorothy Thompson in 1940 or Benazir Bhutto in 2007 is a means of containing an otherwise unruly, powerful woman, transforming her accomplishments into a fad, a spectacle, the playful and ultimately unimportant work of a girl.

When I first saw the Rosamund Pike cover, I thought I was annoyed because of the misapplication of the term. Pike, I thought to myself, is no Clara Bow. But as I’ve thought more about the term, it’s become clear that maybe I’m just subconsciously irritated by the way in which popular magazines wield the term as the ultimate backhanded compliment.

Because it’s one thing to look back at Bow, and analyze, understand, and bemoan her It-ness, a label that simultaneously elevated her to the height of stardom and anchored her asunder. It’s another to see the term — and all its insidious, objectifying power — resurface, proliferate, and thrive nearly a century later. Only this time, it’s saddled not on one woman, but any woman who seems primed to be more than an object — an It, passive and pliable — in the narrative of their own lives. And that’s nothing to be celebrated on the cover of a magazine.










Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/annehelenpetersen/the-trouble-with-it-girls