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In Conversation
 * What Lois Lowry Remembers
 * Barbra Streisand Can Hear Herself Again
 * How Masai Ujiri Builds a Team
 * Mel Brooks Writes It All Down


The New Yorker Interview


CHRISTINA RICCI KNEW THE SPIKY ROLES WERE COMING

The forty-one-year-old actress on “Yellowjackets,” child stardom, and what
happened in between.

By Rachel Syme

January 17, 2022
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Illustration by Chloe Cushman; Source photograph by Frazer Harrison / Getty
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On Showtime’s new hit show “Yellowjackets,” which concluded its first season on
Sunday, Christina Ricci plays Misty Quigley, an unscrewed nurse with a pet
parrot named Caligula and a penchant for lacing household items with narcotics.
Misty’s bananas behavior has deep roots. When she was a teen-ager, in the
nineteen-nineties, she and her high-school soccer team were in a plane crash in
the Canadian Rockies, and she destroyed the plane’s black box to insure that her
cohort could not easily be rescued. Back in normal life, in New Jersey, Misty,
the soccer-team equipment manager, had been an ostracized arch-dork in cat
sweatshirts. In the wilderness, she discovered that she could be useful, and
maybe even respected. She becomes popular enough to join a few of the players in
forming a possibly cannibalistic forest cult, but we’ll have to wait until the
second season to see just how craven their actions become.

Ricci, who started acting professionally at the age of seven, brings a
terrifying perkiness to the role of Misty. Her affect—caustically peppy, eager
yet menacing—is one that Ricci, who is forty-one, has been finely honing since
she was a child star. Her innately sardonic nature, coupled with her petite
physique and dark hair, made Ricci a phenomenon in the nineties: she was a baby
goth, a wee anarchist, a tween cynic. When she played the sadistic, droll
Wednesday Addams at the age of eleven and thirteen, she seemed born for the
part, burning down summer camp or putting her brother in a guillotine with a
bemused grin. As a teen-ager, Ricci continued to land roles that played on her
verbal sharpness and ability to transmit acidic world-weariness. In Ang Lee’s
“The Ice Storm,” she played a provocative suburban girl, who, when asked to say
grace at Thanksgiving, gives thanks for “letting us white people kill all the
Indians and steal their tribal lands and stuff ourselves like pigs.” Ricci did
not shy away from macabre material or transgressive themes, and the media was
glad to cast her as an unruly sexpot. She often gave confrontational interviews,
which she told me was in part a way of coping with unwanted attention.

This is no longer Ricci’s interview style. When we spoke recently, via Zoom, she
was silly and forthcoming, sitting in a slouchy black T-shirt in the garden of
her house, outside Los Angeles. She still had her Christmas decorations up, she
said, because she has been busy with the birth of her second child, Cleopatra.
Ricci said that having children wiped away the nihilistic streak she’d exhibited
coming up through the industry, though, as her performance as Misty suggests,
she has hardly lost her edge. We discussed the “Yellowjackets” finale (spoilers
ahead!), Ricci’s adolescent stardom and struggles with fame, and the younger
generation working in Hollywood today. Our conversation has been condensed and
edited.

Did the “Yellowjackets” showrunners always have you in mind for the role of
Misty?

I think that they had a couple people in mind, and I was one of them. I met with
them and had lunch with Karyn [Kusama, who directed the pilot] and the rest of
the E.P.s. Misty just has that little tiny scene in the pilot, but they went
over what they imagined her becoming, and who she was, and I just really
responded to playing someone like her. I liked the opportunity of playing
someone, in particular, who deals with rage in the way that Misty does. I love
passive aggression. I think it’s incredibly underused, and being a five-foot-two
woman . . .

I’m five-one.



So you get it. Like, we can’t walk around being openly hostile to people, but I
can be nice to the point where it hurts. I think it’s an incredible thing that’s
sort of been overlooked. I loved the idea of playing this character who was so
put into one position, and so marginalized, and so dismissed that she’s learned
to just take what she needs by utilizing what she has. Like, “Oh, you guys think
I’m so innocuous and so adorable?” She pushes that to an extreme and weaponizes
it in a way that I think you don’t see as much.



Everybody is absolutely “Yellowjackets” obsessed. Did you have the sense it
would be that kind of a show?

No. I’m sort of like Misty in that I’m not really that clued in to pop culture.
I knew that I really felt strongly about it. I loved the way they were talking
about all these women characters, and I loved the way they were dealing with
girlhood, and there’s just nothing precious about it. I didn’t know that people
were going to really love it as much as they do.

A lot of the dialogue around the show is, like, “Oh, it gets at the brutality of
girlhood and understands how teen girls would actually be in this sort of
desperate situation.” But you’re somebody who seems to have always understood
the brutality of girlhood.

I have been described as a brutish woman, to tell the truth. That was something
yelled at me by an ex once.

Video From The New Yorker

A Family Brought Together by Pigeons and Eyeball-Filled Jars



When I was growing up, there weren’t many representations of a kind of girl who
was aware of how fucked up the world was, and of the harshness of being female.
I feel like all of your characters have that awareness, even from a young age. I
wonder whether those were the roles you were seeking.

Being a child actress, I was so separated from my peers. I didn’t really grow up
with the social pressure to conform, because I was just removed all the time and
told that I was wonderful for who I was. It was also that time when L7 was
huge—and Courtney Love. It was before Courtney cleaned up. I was very much in
the middle of all those influences, and I was pretty nihilistic. I’ve never
really enjoyed the feeling of too many people liking me, because I feel like I’m
going to suffocate.

What was life like for you before you started acting?



I had a pretty difficult childhood, just in terms of my family and things I went
through as a kid. I definitely expressed all that rage as soon as someone asked
me a question. So yeah, I mean, I was a troubled, rageful teen who was then
allowed to do junkets and press. And I didn’t lie about any of it, really.

You once gave an interview to Blender magazine where you’re wearing this black
leather jacket and, to paraphrase, you’re, like, “I got this at a thrift store.
Fuck parents; they don’t understand you. If I stopped acting tomorrow, I
wouldn’t care.” It’s great.

I was a nihilist! As much as it doesn’t seem like I was trying, I was actually
trying to be more normal. I tried really hard for a really long time to be
someone who said the right things and did the right things.

Do you feel like it’s easier now for women in terms of whatever the “wrong
thing” is considered to be? Does it feel like there’s a more open field?

Yeah. I mean, I do feel like it’s treacherous, because there’s always a wrong
thing to say. There are always parameters. But I do think it’s much more
acceptable now to be the way I was when I was a teen-ager.

You were “discovered” at the age of seven in a school production of “The Twelve
Days of Christmas,” in New Jersey. What were you doing in a school play at seven
that made someone say, “This girl is a star”?

I had to pee very badly, and when I was a child I had that thing where I thought
I was going to miss something if I went to the bathroom. So I didn’t go to the
bathroom before the play started, and I spent much of the play putting my legs
together and dancing around like little children do. People thought that that
was really just adorable, and that’s what I was discovered for: for doing the
wrong thing onstage, ruining the Christmas play.




Did your parents push showbiz on you?



No. I’m the youngest of four kids, and every one of my siblings had been
approached to be a child actor.

You all got approached to become actors?

Yeah, it is striking. We were all really verbally advanced, and that probably
had a lot to do with it. My mom had been a model in her teens and early
twenties. And so, she was, like, “No way would I put my kids through that,”
because I guess her experience was not good. But, by the time they came and
approached me, my siblings were old enough to actually have influence, and they
made my mom basically allow me to do it. I didn’t have any idea what I was
supposed to do, but I think I watched the other little girls at auditions. I
remember my first audition, really watching this other girl and saying to my
mom, “It’s almost like all these girls are flirting.” And she was, like, “Well,
we don’t call it that at your age. But yes, be charming.”

Did you feel ambitious at that age?

I was competitive. I also just liked the praise of doing something well. I was
very, very small, which made me look very young, but I was a great reader and I
could memorize anything. So at each audition I would be given praise. That
became more my ambition as a child—achieving, not really knowing what the goal
was per se.

When you were ten, you landed a role playing Cher’s daughter in “Mermaids.” What
was it like to be on the set of a big movie?

There was so much to learn as a child on a set, coming from a suburban town. I
remember seeing Perrier water for the first time. I loved it. Also, when I was
younger, I got into a lot of trouble at school, before I was working. I talked
in class. I did disruptive, strange things. I provoked this child into beating
me up every day for a while at school, which was unnerving for everybody. When I
had the outlet of the acting, all of that stopped.

The year after “Mermaids,” in 1991, you played Wednesday Addams for the first
time. I’m sure you’re sick of people identifying you with her by now.



I’m actually fine with it. I’m glad it’s not a more annoying character, because
that would be difficult, but she’s kind of great. Wednesday to me felt like who
I could be when I didn’t have to put it on for other people.

Expand on that.

I was very much used to performing for people even before I was an actor. It was
sort of the youngest-child thing I would do. When fights broke out in the house,
I would do something crazy and make everyone laugh. I knew when I had to be
charming and happy, and when other people needed to be cheered up. With
Wednesday, there was no emotion, no nothing, and for me that was great, because
it felt like I could just relax and not do any work at all.

It felt natural to you to be that affectless?

Yeah, it did. You know, there are moments in “Addams Family” when you see
Wednesday giggling and laughing. But she just was not a child that performs for
adults.

You stayed in school, even while you were taking all these jobs?

Yes. I had two lives. I never spoke about work when I was at school. The first
time I came back from working—when I came back from “Mermaids”—I realized that
no one wanted to hear about my time with Cher, and that it would in fact make me
a pariah in school. So I never ever spoke about it.

You moved to New York in the mid-nineties. Where did you live?



I lived in the Police Building in Little Italy. We moved into that building
because I was obsessed with “The Alienist.” It was this really tiny, not really
functional apartment. I was kind of in contact with a few people, like Sandy
Stern, who collaborated with Michael Stipe, and a photographer I worked with
named Frank Ockenfels. I remember the first weekend we moved to the city. I
didn’t know anyone, and Sandy invited me to a party, and I literally walked up
to this party at the Bowery Bar in my Anna Sui baby tee, my Carhartt jeans, my
John Fluevog shoes, and my baby backpack on. And Frank Ockenfels came running
out and was, like, “Oh, good. You’re at this party?” And I was, like, “Yes, but
I don’t know if I’m supposed to be, because I’m fifteen and I just walked up
alone to a fucking party for Michael Stipe.” But that’s how I was. I was very
much, like, Let’s see if this works.

You came of age at perhaps one of the hardest times for teen girls in the media.
Now everybody looks back at the nineteen-nineties and two-thousands and sees
that it was a nightmare.

Yes. People would write things about me when I was very young that I thought
were so inappropriate. I remember there being a review of “The Opposite of Sex”
where they described me as having a “slutty physique.” I was seventeen when I
made that movie. And I just felt, like, This is an adult, a respected film
critic, and this is what they’re allowed to say about me? So that kind of thing
happening over and over again filled me with a lot of rage. I just did not want
to be affable or perfect for anyone.




I know you’ve talked about struggling with an eating disorder.

I had that thing when I was a teen-ager where I really wanted to be left alone.
I don’t need the attention in the room. I’m happy for other people to speak. So,
to be that kind of teen-ager, I was twisting in the wind.

At the same time, you were taking on these incredibly provocative roles—in “The
Opposite of Sex,” “The Ice Storm.” I’m wondering where the drive came from to
take those roles.

The sexual aspects of all those roles were not something I liked. For me, those
kinds of things are just necessary evils. But I always wanted to play more
complicated characters. And I guess when it’s a teen-age girl, the issue of
sexuality is going to be part of it. But I hated the whole “sexy” thing, and
people talking about my boobs. It was just gross to me. Totally gross.

Did you feel like there was some creepy or exploitative intention from the
directors who put you in those roles?



I never really felt that way. The thing that people were enjoying was taking
this chubby teen and making her really sexual or really desirable. I think for
people that was a novelty, because I wasn’t Buffy, or something else that was
more traditionally sexualized in our culture. So I feel like there was a
distance and an intellectualization of it that kept it from being creepy. Nobody
was actually really attracted to me on set. They were just, like, “Oh, my God,
let’s put her in this thing and see if other people think she’s sexy.” I was
this antihero, the anti-sex symbol. But then also sexy in some way? I don’t
know. I didn’t get it. I was, like, Please, everyone, just leave me alone!

Meanwhile, I know you had other dreams besides acting. You’ve said that as a
teen-ager you tried to write a screenplay based on a Jean Cocteau novel.

I did! I wrote an adaptation of Jean Cocteau’s “Les Enfants Terribles,” which
helped me get into Columbia. I never went there, but I did use it as my writing
sample.

What led you to the Cocteau book?

I can’t remember why I read that book. I keep trying, but I can’t. I loved the
codependent brother-sister relationship. I felt like it really dealt with the
brutality of children.

Were your parents big readers, too?

We were all big readers, and almost all my siblings wrote as a hobby. I remember
that the proudest I ever saw my family was when I correctly used the term
“collective apoplexy” in a sentence when making fun of somebody. My mother was
obsessed with the arts. We went to museums in the city all the time. We went to
the ballet. She was obsessed with Hitchcock films, and I had watched all of
those by the time I was very young. My dad had been involved in the film
industry, and prided himself on being a bit of a film historian. Even though we
didn’t have any money, we were still, I guess, like, a quality family. And the
arts were pushed. You know, if anybody showed any kind of inclination toward any
form of art, my father would immediately support it and try to send you to
classes. My mother’s favorite actress was Meryl Streep. So I’m sure she was,
like, “Great, grow up into that.”

Why did you decide not to go to Columbia?



Well, I was not raised with a lot of money, and I didn’t have a lot of money
even then. My mom and I were pretty much in debt, and we had borrowed money just
to live in New York when I was in my late teens. I started getting a lot of work
in my senior year of high school, and that just continued. First of all, I
didn’t have the money for Columbia. And also, all of a sudden, I was successful
in making money. So I deferred for a couple years. And then it was just, like,
I’m not going.

Do you feel like that was a big loss, not getting to go to school?

Now that I’m older, I do. At that age, I was resentful of the idea that no one
would think I was smart unless I had gone to college. So again, the rebellious
teen in me was, like, Fuck that and show everyone anyway. I probably would still
be writing if I had gone to the creative-writing program like I’d wanted to.

Do you think you ultimately lost acting opportunities because of your rebellious
streak?

I do. I know for a fact that people were a little put off in the industry. I
understand being nervous about casting someone who seems so volatile and
uncontrollable.

Were you ever like that on set?

No, I was totally professional and fine on set. I really loved working. Work had
always been an escape, a safe place for me. As much as I didn’t love the fame, I
loved the actual work.

What I was always called as an actress is “specific.” I was too specific, always
specific. So my joke up until three years ago, when someone wanted to meet me
about a role, would be, like, “Oh, is it a really specific character?” It’s not
necessarily been a terrible thing for me. There just was a period of time when
there were no “specific” roles. So I had a really hard time.




We’re talking about the mid-two-thousands. Were you knocking on doors to try to
get work?



Definitely. I couldn’t find the right fit during that time. Comedies were a
really big thing then, and they’d send me in, and they’d always say, “Well, they
have to meet you, because they want to see if you’re funny.” All the other
actresses my age, we joke about it, because that’s what they would say to us:
They just need to see that you’re funny. But I was never funny in the right way.
I got a lot of notes, like, “She should probably try to be more accessible like
Tara Reid.”

Was there a time when you thought you might actually step back or quit?

No. I just assumed that once I got to a certain age I would be more successful,
because the roles themselves wouldn’t be based on me being sexually attractive
or likable. At that point, the roles would be complicated enough that I would be
valuable again.

Has that borne out for you?

It seems like it. It’s happening, finally.

You played Zelda Fitzgerald in the series “Z: The Beginning of Everything,” for
Amazon, in 2015. It was a project that you spearheaded. What drew you to the
Fitzgerald material?

Since I was a kid, I’ve read a lot of biographies about women. When I was young,
I was always obsessed with this idea that, in the olden days, all women would go
crazy at some period of time and have to be put into a mental institution—not
understanding at all that it was just what we did to women who were too
“difficult” and having a normal, natural human reaction to the repression in
their lives. Zelda Fitzgerald is a really incredible representation of a woman
at that time. I guess I connected with that level of fame. I also felt Zelda
always was somebody who made a terrible mistake. She was smart. She could write.
She could have taken a more difficult path, which would’ve been going to college
and gaining success on her own, but instead she took a lazy path, and she
thought she’d get there by marrying a man. And she paid for that decision for
the rest of her life. It’s a glamorous world. They’re the toast of the town. But
really she is trapped and suffering.

Was the project also a chance for you to be in a leading role?



Yes. I never would’ve gotten that part if I hadn’t found the book and produced
it myself.

Your co-stars on “Yellowjackets” include Melanie Lynskey, Juliette Lewis, and
Tawny Cypress. What do you think of this narrative around the show which is,
like, “All these great actresses from the nineties are finally getting a
revival!” Does it feel like you all are a cohort?

People have asked, “Do you guys talk about coming up in the nineties?” And I
was, like, “No, never occurred to us to discuss that!” We do talk about the
industry. We tell stories. But I don’t think that’s a huge part of our identity,
to tell you the truth. I might have gone away for other people, but I’ve always
been here for me and very much existed in the mid-two-thousands, the
twenty-tens, and now.

We do talk about things in terms of some of the youngers on this show. We call
them “youngers.” I know that’s not proper English, but it just seems easier.
They stand up for themselves or set boundaries themselves in ways that we never
could have or would have.

The show in many ways is about a group of older women trying to run away from a
younger notoriety. Did you relate at all to the idea of being a woman in your
forties looking back on something that happened to you as a teen and feeling
like you are desperate to move past it?

I definitely have things I’m ashamed of. I can relate to that feeling—really
wanting to distance yourself from some behavior as a teen-ager. It’s not like
I’m ashamed of who I was when I was famous at a certain age, but there are
definitely things I did that I would like to move away from.

Do you ever feel protective of these so-called youngers whom you work with now?

Not really, because I just think about how I would’ve been in that situation,
and I would not have wanted anyone to tell me anything. I give advice if someone
asks me, but I would never just offer up anything to anyone.



Do you think, among the younger actors, that there’s not as much of a sense of
nihilism as you had?

Definitely. You know, in the late nineties, being cool was not caring. You
couldn’t be overly ambitious, you couldn’t court attention or fame. That was
lame and was not respected. Over time it has become totally fine. We would
absolutely not have been caught dead posting selfies, or taking pictures of
ourselves. Now people are fine with being completely sincere. Sincerity wasn’t
cool back then.

When we leave Misty in the “Yellowjackets” finale, she’s just gone to the
reunion. She’s chopped up a body. She’s poisoned a woman with a fentanyl
cigarette. Obviously, everybody thinks Misty is a total loon. At the same time,
I’m not sure everybody is in total agreement that she’s bad.




Well, I think that Misty is very self-centered, and her drive is so selfish that
she’s not necessarily a safe person to be around. You can’t trust her in any
way. But I think that one of the things about all the women is that none of them
are safe. Misty, because she doesn’t really have a lot of boundaries in terms of
what she’s willing to do to get what she wants—that is a dangerous person.

I wanted to bring up the tragic wig that Misty wears.

The character has the haircut my mother had my entire childhood: a curly bob
with side bangs.

I really don’t mind it. I don’t like how people treat me once I’m in costume.
But aside from that . . .

Wait, how do they treat you when you’re in costume?



It’s like a bizarre social experiment. The second you get into Misty’s
wardrobe—wig and glasses—people forget that you’re an actress. People teasing or
making jokes about you, taking a lot of liberties. I had to be very cold and
mean, to offset it. My attitude had to always be very “Don’t touch me. Why are
you touching me?” People have a reaction to the way she looks, which is very
informative as to how this person would have experienced life. I was just, like,
Oh, this is so interesting, that just because I’m wearing this wig and glasses
they’ve forgotten I’m No. 3 on the call sheet.






MORE NEW YORKER CONVERSATIONS

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 * A Harvard astronomer asks, Have aliens found us?

 * Why a conservative writer thinks we should reconsider King George III.

 * To decrease racism, Robin DiAngelo wants white progressives to look inward.

 * A teen-ager describes how his parents’ resistance to vaccination has strained
   their family life.

 * Donna Brazile explains why she went to work for Fox News.

Sign up for our daily newsletter to receive the best stories from The New
Yorker.

Rachel Syme is a staff writer at The New Yorker. She has covered Hollywood,
style, and other cultural subjects since 2012.

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