Prompt 172. Doing Her Very Best
Lena Dunham on the night side of Hollywood & our fascination with it
Hi friend,
Earlier this week, I had surgery to get a chemo port placed in my chest. (If you didn’t read my last email, where I shared the difficult news about my health, you can find it here.) When I emerged from anesthesia, I was overcome with emotion, partly because of the drugs, but also because it felt real for the first time. Leukemia is largely invisible—there’s nothing you can see or touch—but to witness your own body altered in this way, to behold a wound, erases any hint of denial.
And so I’ve been trying to take it easy this week, resting and recovering. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m a bit of a workhorse; work has always seen me through. I suspect that the things I write and share with this community in the weeks and months to come will be no exception. But necessarily I’m going to have to tweak some things to accommodate the vicissitudes of cancer treatment.
The first is that our December Studio Visit will likely be our last for the foreseeable future. In its stead, I’ll be sending out my Dear Susu column. Paid subscribers will still get access to our incredible archive of past Studio Visits with extraordinary artists like Elizabeth Gilbert, Imbolo Mbue, and Jon Batiste.
As for this month’s Studio Visit, I’m so excited to announce that we’re closing out the year with a special Studio Visits guest: Lena Dunham, the Emmy-nominated, Golden Globe-winning filmmaker, actress, and writer. I admire so much about Lena, from her brilliant film- and television-making, to her writing, to her advocacy for people living with chronic illness.
Lena and I will be in conversation this Friday, December 10 at 1pm ET, and I couldn’t be more honored—except I am, because she has also contributed a prompt for us today. It’s about public figures: how we see them and what it says about us.
Sending love,
Suleika
P.S. Quick reminder: If you can’t make the Studio Visit live, we’ll send out a recording within 48 hours. Become a paid subscriber to join!
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172. Doing Her Very Best by Lena Dunham
I think a lot about Brittany Murphy. I probably think about Brittany Murphy more than you think about Brittany Murphy, probably more than anyone who didn't know Brittany Murphy thinks about Brittany Murphy. Her death at age 32 in 2009, from pneumonia, anemia, and a cocktail of prescription and over the counter drugs, hit me harder than the deaths of rock legends or state leaders or even certain relatives. I followed the details obsessively, trying to piece together a story that made sense and didn’t fully upend the image of Brittany Murphy I had cherished and mourned during her lifetime.
It started with Clueless. That film was a turning point for me (not alone here) and I decided, quickly and with soul-affirming clarity, that I was a Tai. Her awkward heaving bosom, her slight Jersey accent obscuring her sharp intelligence, her bumbling cheer in the face of the sleekest girls of Beverly Hills—this was the best version of teenage-hood I could hope for and anyway, she had all the killer lines (“you’re a virgin who can’t drive”).
Then there was Daisy, the emotionally stunted rotisserie chicken lover in Girl, Interrupted, pulsing with fragile rage. Angelina may have won the Oscar, but Brittany made me realize we were all just a step from breakdown. She opened me up to the concept of living without judgment because nobody is immune from paralyzing pain.
And then, just like that, she transformed, dropping an alarming amount of weight and blonding herself beyond recognition. There was an odd sense of betrayal—I was a chubby high school senior, a Tai—and I watched alone in my bedroom as she and her brand-new boyfriend Ashton Kutcher hosted the MTV New Year’s Eve show. Interviews of the two showed her joyfully giggling as he fielded serious questions about their upcoming film Just Married with "cuz she's so freakin' hot." He was mostly interrupting her. She was mostly loving it.
I can imagine now what that must have felt like—the former chubby girl and the cartoon boyfriend hottie, the traces of her former self replaced with jagged edges and puffed lips and the knowledge that she was desired by someone who was desired by everyone. When their relationship ended, I crafted a narrative to try and understand: he was just a buffoon and she was too emotional, too in tune, too much for someone with his limited ability to understand the essential frailty of the human state. There were more romances, both rumored (Eminem, who I’d hazard to guess is a complex guy to date) and confirmed (two broken engagements with behind the scenes guys). She would hurt but she'd be better for it, just like every woman who has ever seen a man shrink away in horror upon finally witnessing their totality.
At this point her career careened between thrillers where her delicacy and shaky beauty were on display and rom-coms where she operated someplace between Lucille Ball and Nicolette Sheridan. Having two modes, diametrically opposed and feeding each other, is not unfamiliar to me: the broken girl and the adorably clumsy one, the crazy one and the crazy one. The schism is a gift and a curse, a skill of illusion that ultimately creates a deep sense of isolation.
In 2007 she married Simon Monjack, a portly Brit who was widely considered to be a con man. He moved into the Hollywood Hills home that she shared with her mother. She continued to appear on red carpets, glassy eyed and clinging to her husband. Her lips were bigger still. Her films went straight to video.
In December of 2009 she collapsed in her bathroom and died just a few hours later. Simon Monjack and her mother did the talk show circuit and on Larry King he casually called his mother-in-law “baby.” They insisted that Brittany only took opiates during “that time of the month” and that she was petrified of other drugs due to a heart murmur. She ate like a pig. She’d been happy. Six months later Simon Monjack was found dead in their shared bed, also from pneumonia and anemia. The horrifying poetry of it was noted by tabloid outlets then forgotten.
When I came to Hollywood in 2010 I was as sure of myself as anyone had ever been. I knew how I liked my hair (unbrushed), my jeans (skin tight), and my men (anyone willing to kiss me). I was a bubbling fountain of ideas and I posed pigeon-toed for whoever asked me. I felt lucky to be chosen, but then, upon realizing the stakes, terrified to fail. A certain terror replaced a long held curiosity, a lazy joy. I met a guy with a tiny apartment we barely left. I experimented with counting almonds instead of eating regular meals. I ultimately couldn’t do it, but the only thing protecting me was the control I had over my work and the love of some very thoughtful people. I could have become stick-like, clutching someone who made big promises. I could have leaned on a lost, daffy persona. My public mistakes have all been played out in the realm of language, slips of the tongue and intellectual fumbles, casual fuck-ups in a world where keeping your shit in check equals staying alive. But they could just as easily have been Ashtons and Eminems and talent managers who bought me fat diamonds. I could have convinced the doctor I needed more drugs, and more still. I have before.
I wish I could talk to Brittany Murphy. I wish I could tell her I understand—that she wasn't giving up towards the end but rather trying so hard. Maybe she thought eschewing food would give her back her sense of control, wrestle it away from her mother or her husband or the people who had decided who she was and what she could be. Maybe she thought the prescription drugs would quiet her fear and give her some sense of joy, of peace, of possibility. Maybe she thought the cold medicine would get her on her feet again, back to set where she belonged, performing like she had since childhood. Maybe, just maybe, it would all coalesce, she'd remember why she came to Hollywood in the first place, and she'd be back in the warm patch of sun that shines on the people doing their very best.
Your prompt for the week:
Write about a public figure you’ve long been fascinated with from afar. What first drew you to them, and why? How has the fascination evolved? What does it tell you about yourself?
If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments below, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.
Today’s Contributor
Lena Dunham is an Emmy-nominated and Golden Globe-winning actress, filmmaker, and writer. The creator and star of the HBO series Girls, Lena is also the author of the New York Times best-selling memoir Not That Kind of Girl, as well as a vocal advocate for people living with chronic physical and psychic pain. She’ll be joining us for a Studio Visit this Friday, December 10 at 1pm ET. Become a paid subscriber to join!
Dear Susu No #1: Read Me, See Me, Like Me
Last week I sent out the first installment of Dear Susu, an advice column where I answer your questions about anything—writing, life, dogs, art, or why I’m in a French linen dress in the bough of a huge tree. This time, I answered a question from Jeanne, who feels the urge to write but isn’t sure how to share her words with the world. Paid subscribers can access it here!