DECEMBER 2002
So I filmed and I networked and I graced every single carpet I was invited to.
I became the sort of star who could survive a scandal like mine: I dated up-and-coming celebrities, I tipped the press off on made-up scenarios, I went to A-list parties in skimpy outfits, and I made sure I was seen with the right people.
I was exhausted.
I’d begun work on my own cinema room for my rare nights off.
I converted my basement, just like my grandfather had—only mine was state-of-the-art, not mismatched furniture and a bedsheet for a screen.
I stocked it with old reels, the vinegary smell of deteriorating film a near-constant companion.
But the movies didn’t hook me like they once did.
They felt wooden, tired—too pretentious to even claim to enjoy. But I used to love them.
So when did that fade?
Instead, I watched my own performances. And I watched Harper’s. I tried to draw lines between us, like winning once and for all might be a simple matter of revision and strategy. (I was eighteen years old in a library once more, trying to study my way to victory.)
When Harper’s latest film, Wilder Ones, debuted, I had Lana obtain a reel so I could watch it on repeat.
She was brilliant. (At this point it wasn’t even a reluctant thing to admit but a peculiar point of pride—my nemesis was one of the most talented women in Hollywood. She could dedicate herself to so much—and she’d chosen to devote herself to my irritation.)
I was jealous. The film was a little kitsch for my taste—clearly inspired by I Capture the Castle—but the shots were beautiful, and the plot layered and sublime.
I wished I’d been sent the script, but I’d have been fresh out of rehab when they cast this, and no one was willing to consider me for their projects.
Sometime on my fifth rewatch, I wondered if Harper still avoided my films—or if somewhere, maybe, she was obsessing just as much about my projects as I was hers.
Starborn had taken a while to edit, what with all those effects to layer in.
When it finally released, it was the hit of the summer, and suddenly I was on the convention circuits too, which were mostly a joy but also full of too much recycled air and too many fans who thought women playing comic book characters were extensions of them, pen and ink for them to paste their fantasies to.
It was followed swiftly by In Your Own Way, in which I played a naive hippie singer, swept up in a sun-kissed, drug-addled ’60s fantasy.
It was a bit on the nose, but I suppose that’s why Penelope thought to reach out to me for the part.
My stomach was in knots for the premiere. Normally I blitzed through them with the sort of energy I used to bring to my teenage customer service roles—greeting fans, smiling, laughing at their jokes as my pen scribbled on as many waving photos as I could clutch.
But In Your Own Way had me more nervous than I could remember. Filming it had been a strangely relaxing experience, almost therapeutic, navigating addiction in a fictional landscape. Only now those personal themes had me terrified to encounter the public.
But the premiere was nearly as seamless as filming had been—until a fan stopped me and I thought, This is it. No one had said a bad word to my face—yet. I was certain it was coming and here it was.
“Thank you,” the girl said. “You’re so inspiring. I’m two years clean and … I’m so used to seeing it presented as the end. Or a moral failure. Or a cautionary tale, and it’s just so nice to see it as a struggle within a journey, and … Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m just so excited.”
And I cried right there on the red carpet—had to excuse myself and hurry into the theater and really reckon with how much this film meant to me.
It was an experimental move from Penelope Lutz who clearly wanted to stretch herself after Starborn—a kitschy, Wes Anderson–esque approach with carefully angled shots, movement, and bright bold lights.
And Rita was so damn hopeful. It read as naive, until you realized she knew.
She knew and she hoped anyway and that hope was strength.
The bravest thing a girl could do in that world, and I think playing her helped me find that hope again too.
The costumes were sure to sweep up every award going, so I hired a stylist for the press tour to lean in hard, sending me to the carpets in shift minidresses, block-color tights, and fur-trimmed coats—which was actually the only time I heard from Harper, really, that whole year.
When I went to the Met Gala in a dress of vintage fur, and the next day she announced her ambassadorship of PETA.
It felt like a return to our old rivalry, petty one-upmanship rather than debasement and blood.
Everything felt like it was realigning to how it was meant to be. But as I began the award circuit, Ruchi drew me aside.
“We need to talk about the Academy.”
“What about them?” I asked. I was preparing for a press dinner, and as far as I was aware, no one in attendance held much sway with Academy members.
“I just want you to be realistic. They care an awful lot about their reputation, and they don’t tend to associate with anything—anyone—who might dent their prestige.”
“Oh,” I said—which was all I really could say. It was hard enough recovering from addiction without throwing in my incessant guilt and the stigma and judgment that wouldn’t let me breathe.
“It’s not that,” Ruchi said, placing her hand over mine and squeezing.
“Or, not just that,” she amended, at my disbelieving look.
“It’s Harper too. I have it on good authority this messy rivalry of yours is the reason she wasn’t nominated for The Dollhouse.
I’m sorry, Nadine. I know I encouraged it, but I think when you were beyond reproach, it was a fun anecdote.
You’ve proved yourself human, and in the eyes of the Academy it’s damaging.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they aren’t as bad as the rumors say.
I just want you to be prepared and to know if you aren’t nominated that you fucking should be.
You worked hard for this, and no one has a performance on par with yours. ”
I took her words to heart so strongly I convinced myself I wouldn’t be nominated for anything at all. That my time winning awards was long over.
But as the year drew to a close, the Golden Globes announced their nominees.
BEST ACTRESS IN A MOTION PICTURE—DRAMA
Chelsea Green—Hold the Line as Mabel
Nadine Heywood—In Your Own Way as Rita Holmes
Octavia Knowles—There Was Never Lipstick as Rosalind Franklin
Harper Moore—Wilder Ones as Jane
Mandy Stein—Finding Nowhere as Natalia Ray
The Emmys—and all that happened there—was suddenly little more than a warm-up. Harper and I both nominated for Golden Globes? This was where it counted.
Ruchi called that evening: “Turn to channel four.”
I did so swiftly. It was the week before Christmas, and I’d spent most of the month at home. Rehab had encouraged broadening our hobbies, so I alternated between arranging flowers, knitting, and trying to teach myself guitar. I hated all of them but supposedly it was good to keep my hands busy.
I coped by sticking audiobooks into the cassette player. I was considering producing a film myself, to expand my reach. Maybe finding a book that would work well for adaptation.
But tonight I paused it and reached for the TV remote instead.
It was This Friday Night, hosted by Eloise Taverner, and Harper was right there in those famous swivel armchairs, laughing away.
“Congratulations on your Golden Globe nomination by the way,” Eloise said, flashing a quick smile at the cheering audience. “Just announced today!”
“Thank you, thank you!”
“And I have to ask … what do you think of the choice of nominees?”
The audience oohed at the fact Eloise had asked so audacious a question.
I wanted to reach through the screen and shake them, to tell them to grow the fuck up.
And I wanted to hear Harper answer.
She laughed a low, melodic chuckle. “I think 2003 might just be the war of the nominations.”
The bouquet of tansy arrived the next day.