Sigh. THIS chick. Honestly, I'm kind of disappointed in Esquire (one of my favorite magazines), for naming Evan Rachel Wood in their Women We Love, because although she's 23, she still reeks of wearing that junior high school mentality. You know, the chick who dated the much older town weirdo (even bringing him to the 9th Grade Winter Ball), wearing overtly sexual clothing (and being sent home by the assistant principal to change, because thigh-highs and a bra really aren't appropriate attire for Remedial Math class). This piece just smacks of near-kiddie-porn on Esquire's part and try-hard on ERW's part.
"Evan Rachel Wood is twenty-three years old, in fine health, as radiant as her pallor will allow, and newly coiffed like Veronica Lake. She says she doesn't do drugs, recently quit smoking, and doesn't drink much. But here on a sunny day in a bar in downtown Manhattan she'd really like to talk about her death. She's already written a will, she says. And she's made plans to have her ashes dispersed across the world, including in her native Raleigh — in a field next to the theater run by her father — and Paris's Luxembourg Gardens, which she used to visit with her onetime boyfriend, the actor Jamie Bell. The song playing at her funeral will be Pink Floyd's "Shine On You Crazy Diamond."
She's consecrated both the Floyd song and the ex-boyfriend in ink, as tattoos: a diamond on her right ankle and a "J" on her left ankle. She has nine tattoos in total. But you can't see them during her extended, haunting nude scene in HBO's Mildred Pierce; they're covered in makeup. It wouldn't have made narrative sense for her character — a borderline-sociopathic opera singer in the thirties — to have a Shel Silverstein drawing of a candle on her back. Or the word unless, from Dr. Seuss's The Lorax, on her ribs. (The Edgar Allan Poe verse on her back just below her neck was chronologically plausible but covered up anyway.)
It might be the tattoos. It might be her on-again, off-again, now-off relationship with Marilyn Manson. It might be her filmography — from Thirteen to The Wrestler to Mildred Pierce — which amounts to one long crisis of adolescence.
Watch any of her films, including Robert Redford's historical drama, The Conspirator (out now):
They're all master classes in the art of crying. She dismisses this skill as "part of the job description," like a basketball player's ability to sink free throws. When shooting The Life Before Her Eyes, her director once dared her to shed a single tear out of a single eye as soon as he called "Action." She obliged, on cue. A half-court buzzer-beater.
"I was a teenager in Hollywood with a divorced family — there's gonna be pain there," she says. "I've got plenty to draw from."
The end of Wood's cinematic adolescence will be marked by her first adult role, in George Clooney's upcoming political film, The Ides of March, due out in the fall. It will also be marked by a move to New York City. She says she's feeling free and genuinely happy these days.
"I'm up for anything. Meet a nice guy, meet a nice girl..."
This is the third such hint in the conversation, after that androgyny comment and saying she'd "marry" her Mildred Pierce costar Kate Winslet if she could.
You date women?
"Yes," she says proudly, as if she was waiting to be asked.
Do you look for different things in men than in women?
"Yeah, I'm more kind of like the guy when it comes to girls. I'm the dominant one." It's with women, she says, that her" inner North Carolina gentleman comes out."If you've been keeping count, there's one tattoo left. It's on the inside of her lip. She says, "No one gets to see it or know what it says."
It's hard not to imagine what form the concentrated essence of Evan Rachel Wood might take. Is it a song lyric? A doodle? Some Manson-related thing? Her last will and testament? All she'll say is that it's there. Which is all you need to know."
I don't particularly find Evan Rachel Wood all that interesting or "gifted". Her relationships (whether with Marilyn Manson or Mickey Rourke) and generally strange behavior have a huge creep-factor for me. I'm waiting for a Judd-like revelation in about ten years.
I can spot that crap a mile away.
Written by: Diva Julia