Pageboy, page 16
A brilliant cast, a cult classic, it was set to be great. But it went off the rails, one of those movies that is a true mess from the very beginning.
We were getting ready for a car stunt when Kiersey and I realized that everyone had a built-in thick seat belt, except for us. We looked to the various stunt crew members strapping the others in, perplexed, questioning why we weren’t being secured for the scene. “Why does everyone else have a safety belt but not us?” we’d inquired.
Kiersey was laid out in the back over Diego. I was perched on James’s lap. No restraints, a basic safety measure of the carefully orchestrated, expensive, and elaborate stunt that hadn’t been thought through.
Kiersey and I didn’t do anything, except comply and get in the car. We did not say anything further. That worry of appearing “difficult.”
The scene began with a panicked escape, hospital security in hot pursuit. Barely making it out, we all barge through a heavy door, appearing in an underground parking garage. We sprint to a red Mini and pack in. Marlo (Nina) hits the gas, Jamie (James) is in the passenger seat, and I am on his lap. Ray (Diego) is in the back with Sophia (Kiersey) sprawled over him.
Our reactions in that scene are genuine. The Mini was being driven by a stunt driver who sat in a go-cart sort of thing on the roof of the car. The vehicle was rigged with cameras to capture all of us. And the director did not want us to see the stunt before we did it.
“I don’t want to tell you guys about it, I want it to be a surprise, to get real reactions,” he said. We were initially excited. We’d never seen stunt rigging like that, with a person attached to the top of the car. I still don’t even know how that works.
I love a thrill. I am a die-hard roller-coaster enthusiast, a force you to watch POV videos of my fave roller coasters degree of fanaticism. I have friends who refer to me as “the mayor of Six Flags Magic Mountain.” I would bring people frequently, acting as a guide, the ride order all laid out. You’re strapped in at an amusement park, employees walk up and down the rows, checking the various belts and harnesses, pushing and pulling. They yell words indicating all is clear, and off you go. All of those measures making the experience possible, permitting one to surrender. The rise and fall, upside down, backward, the sudden drop, the world whizzes, the body evaporates. It offered respite for almost two minutes, the average length of a roller coaster ride. I could let it all go.
This was different.
At action that car took off at a shocking speed, zooming through the claustrophobic underground garage, barreling toward the gate barrier arm. It did not rise, but smashed against the windshield, the force splintering it. My heart pounded, jaw tight. It jostled the body, shoving it back as the driver barreled up the ramp, taking a hard, sharp turn onto the street right when a car sped past. The Mini swerved, the two left wheels going over the median curb. The vehicle tilted, all of us propelled to the right. I placed my hands firmly on the front dash, attempting to brace myself. Flailing, I had no control, Kiersey and I both. Half the car off the street, we raced by traffic. Our bodies jarred when it pounded back to the cement. The Mini reached the end of the median and pulled a one-eighty. Spinning rapidly, we clasped what we could, inertia taking over.
The director yelled, “Cut!” We sat there in shock. The first take was a whirlwind, a degree of intensity we did not quite anticipate. Kiersey and I looked at each other, speechless, staring at our shaking hands. We should have spoken up immediately, but we hadn’t. The set pressure, all the moving parts, as if it can never stop.
We got in the car for the second take. James wrapped his arms tighter around my waist. The others had their harnesses double-checked. ACTION. Again, the red Mini hurtled up the ramp, turned right onto the Toronto street, and as the stunt driver went to drive onto the curb, he unexpectedly slammed on the brake, propelling us forward and thrusting us back hard. Someone had driven onto the closed set, a large chunk of a Toronto street that had been blocked off for the nightlong multivehicle car chase. Just a random car in the midst.
Luckily everyone was fine, but I think back to how reckless and dangerous that was. How Kiersey and I were treated with such flippancy and disrespect. Regardless of a stranger’s car making it onto the closed set of a car chase, what if something just … went wrong?
Kiersey and I have since spoken of this incident many times, turning over why we didn’t speak up sooner and more forcefully.
In retrospect, I should have known the shoot was going to be a shitshow. Within our first week, someone approached Kiersey on set, sitting in her chair between takes, you only have this part because you’re Black, you know, he said to her.
For myself, I knew from the initial wardrobe fitting. Instantly I discerned what they were aiming for. More like a girl. Heels and skirts were laid out, which I didn’t understand, they were medical students in residency at an intensive care unit. The film takes place over a matter of days, and my character hardly even changes her clothes. I understood the assignment and I was going to comply, but there was categorically no rationale for the character to wear heels or a skirt. I said yes to fancy blouses, tight jeans, and boots with a heel. I figured the issue was settled. We solved the problem, the problem being me.
A day or two later Kiersey, Nina, James, Diego, and myself met for a table read. We gathered in a small, bare conference room in a hotel frequented by members of the film industry because it has corporate suites with small kitchens. We combed through the script, digging into scenes and bonding, the adrenaline at the beginning of a project is always a rush. The sensation of no turning back.
As we were wrapping up, one of the heads of production asked me, “Ellen, can you stay for a bit so we can chat?”
“Sure,” I responded, thrown off by his tone, saying goodbye to everyone.
I sat across from him, a desk between us, the sterile room enclosed by unadorned walls.
“You know, Ellen, I grew up in a very progressive area,” he began. “It is very open there and I grew up knowing gay people…”
Oh no, I thought. Never a good start. The words came out as if rehearsed. I imagined him workshopping the moment, blocking it out in his mind, matching the words with the smiles. The cloak of “nice.”
“Ellen, are you mad that this character isn’t gay?” he asked me.
I stared at him. I paused, less shock, more astonishment. He’d been friendly, grounded, and passionate, someone I was looking forward to working with. His exuberance clear at the table read, I had admired his energy. My astonishment morphed into a quiet boil.
“Are you asking me this because I did not want to wear a skirt?” His face remained the same, an annoying grin with a glinting youthfulness in the eyes, but I pressed on. “Are you really asking me if I am angry about this character not being gay because I am not wearing a fucking skirt?”
He looked on inscrutably, as if being pleasant means you are not queerphobic.
“Your view of women is egregiously narrow,” I said to the man, reminding him lesbians wear skirts, too.
He tried to voice a response, fumbling again and again, tripping over his words. He attempted to recover but failed.
I left him in the room and headed back to the studio. When I arrived, I beelined to an executive’s office, a man I would later watch give a woman an unwanted massage on set. His subsequent texts to Kiersey asking her to go to dinner glared with gross.
I entered the room with his name on the door and crossed to the chair in front of his desk. I lifted my hands, and curling my fingers I brought them together, creating a nanoscopic tunnel to peer through.
“Your view of women is this small.” I spied through the hole at him, apoplectic. “It is this fucking small.”
He looked back vacuously. I persisted, speaking of the limitations, the misogyny, the queerphobia. All that I had swallowed for years, I hauled out my insides for him to gorge on.
In spite of all that, I continued to prioritize the needs of everyone else over mine. I allowed the erasure, endorsing their disillusionment, trying not to be “difficult” anymore. I knew those in charge were dancing around the subtext. I knew they wanted me to look “less queer.” I asked them to leave me to it, again reiterating that if I were to wear the clothes they wished for, I would look ridiculous, incongruous with the script, and that I understood the mission. That I would execute it.
I’m sorry who I am is repulsive.
I’m trying. Can’t you see?
I try to rid myself of my “queer walk,” the way my arms dangle and bend, how my hands move, that way I sit, “not ladylike,” as my father used to say.
Soften the voice, be quiet.
The screen can’t be full of my repugnant features. Those “boyish” ones, those “lesbian” ones. I know that.
I’ve known that.
A couple days later, I was at the studio for a screen test, not to be confused with auditions—more like camera tests. You show up to work as if it is a regular day. You head to hair and makeup, discuss looks, what to start with, the character arcs and whatnot. I would sit and face the mirror, eyeliner and mascara being applied, my reflection an enigma. I didn’t want to look, because I wasn’t there, and the hope that perhaps one day I would be had vanished.
As a child and an adult, I would press my face against my bathroom mirror. The last time I did this was in my trailer while shooting the second season of The Umbrella Academy. My eyes opened wide, as close as possible, I would stare, periodically offering butterfly kisses. I could block myself out, I was a person I didn’t know, I’d gaze into what felt like the universe, my eye a planet of its own. I must be somewhere in there, I’d think.
I changed into my wardrobe, the various outfits we’d finally settled on ready to go. I walked over from base camp to set, meeting many of the crew for the first time. The space already lit. I stood on my mark and spun slowly as instructed. Front. Slow turn. Profile. Slow turn. Back. Slow turn. Other profile. Slow turn. Front. Lens change. A wide to a medium, spin again, a medium to a close-up, spin again.
I stood in front of the camera, waiting as they made minor adjustments, I was enjoying making small talk with the crew members I was meeting for the first time. Of course not loving the clothes, but it was a balancing act I could handle. I was relieved that was settled, that I stood up for myself. That I hadn’t just swallowed it.
A producer approached me, all smiles, with his phone out. He lifted it to my face, revealing photos of … me. He began to scroll through Google images, slowly moving through, as if I had never seen myself, which I suppose in some ways was true. All the photos had one thing in common: long, wavy hair.
I imagined his fingers typing, “Ellen Page with long hair.”
“The studio was thinking hair extensions. They think the long hair just makes you look more … soft.”
“That sounds like code to me, that really sounds like code to me,” I retorted.
My hair was shoulder-length, not even that short. The character was not “soft,” nor should she have looked “soft,” whatever that even means.
“The studio just thinks…” He looked back to the phone. Scrolling down, images of my face, its long hair, makeup, lashes surrounding the eyes, enhancing the emptiness. A slideshow, a mood board for that “soft” and “pretty” look they craved.
“I know what I look like,” I said, and I walked off. I’d never walked off before. I wish I had left the project then and there. Instead I called my then agent, who understood and was furious with them. I was grateful for this, to feel seen, not told to shrug it off. It almost never crossed my mind that I could walk away, or that I could call someone, just pick up the phone and say, “This isn’t okay.” Too many times those who were supposed to protect me did nothing, or if anything, only furthered my silence.
23
U-TURN
I’d always been told I was gay, made fun of for being a dyke. I felt more comfortable in environments with queer women, but inherently something in me knew that I was transgender. Something I had always known but didn’t have the words for, wouldn’t permit myself to embrace.
“I was never a girl, I’ll never be a woman. What am I going to do?” I used to say. Have always said.
The first time I acknowledged I was trans, in the properly conscious sense, beyond speculation, was around my thirtieth birthday. Almost four years before I came out as trans publicly.
“Do you think I’m trans?” I’d asked a close friend. They answered hesitantly, knowing no one can come to that conclusion for someone else, but they looked at me with a quiet recognition and said, “I could see that…” A sturdiness shining through, a light from under the door.
Then there was the time where I wasn’t the one to bring it up. I was having a small party, people jumped in the pool and huddled together on outdoor furniture. My friend Star and I sat off alone, catching up on the patio. I’d met Star while filming the first season of Gaycation, our fourth episode being set in the United States.
We interviewed Star in San Francisco at a clinic run by trans women where she worked offering health care and support for those in the LGBTQ+ community who don’t have access to such resources. The clinic has since had to move; Twitter bought the block.
Star and I connected, in that way where the future flashes, an auspicious beginning. We stayed in touch, became good friends. Star has experienced far more obstacles and barriers than I have, yet she holds space for me, supports me, sees me. I remember being mesmerized by her voice when I first listened to her eponymous album, Star. The lyrics of her song “Heartbreaker” were on repeat in my mind for weeks after:
I run away from feeling too good
I’m scared as hell you’d leave me if you knew
I run away from feeling too good
I’m scared as hell you’d leave me if you knew
We sat together on an oversize chair, the splashes and music blending together in the background. We spoke about gender, I shared the degree of my discomfort, how even when I was playing a role, I couldn’t wear feminine clothes anymore. How I always struggled in the summer when layers were not an option and the presence of my breasts under my T-shirt forced me to incessantly crane my neck, sneaking quick peeks down. I would pull on my shirt, my posture folded. Walking down the sidewalk, I’d glance at a store window to check my profile, my brain consumed. I had to avoid my reflection. I couldn’t look at pictures, because I was never there. It was making me sick. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be lifted out—the gender dysphoria slowly crushing me.
“It’s a role, you’re an actor. Why are you complaining about such a thing?” people would say.
“I would wear a skirt,” a straight, cis man had said to me, playing devil’s advocate. I kept trying to explain the difficulty I was having. But he kept spitting out his unwanted opinions while then berating me for getting “too emotional.” “Hysterical” I believe was the word he used.
These words triggered a deep shame I’d held since I could remember. I was puzzled, too—invalidating my own experience. How was I in so much pain? Why did even slightly feminine clothing make me want to die? I’m an actor, there shouldn’t be a problem. How could I be such an ungrateful prick?
Imagine the most uncomfortable, mortifying thing you could wear. You squirm in your skin. It’s tight, you want to peel it from your body, tear it off, but you can’t. Day in and day out. And if people are to learn what is underneath, who you are without that pain, the shame would come flooding out, too much to hold. The voice was right, you deserve the humiliation. You are an abomination. You are too emotional. You’re not real.
“Do you think you’re trans?” Star asked me, locking eyes.
“Yes, well, maybe. I think so. Yeah.” We exchanged a soft smile.
I was so near. Almost touching it, but I panicked. And it burned away like the joint I was smoking, becoming an old roach left to rot in a forgotten ashtray. It all felt too big—the thought of going through this publicly, in a culture that is so rife with transphobia and people with enormous power and platforms actively attacking the community.
The world tells us that we aren’t trans but mentally ill. That I’m too ashamed to be a lesbian, that I mutilated my body, that I will always be a woman, comparing my body to Nazi experiments. It is not trans people who suffer from a sickness, but the society that fosters such hate. As actress and writer Jen Richards once put it:
It’s exceedingly surreal to have transitioned ten years ago, find myself happier & healthier than ever, have better relationships with friends & family, be a better and more engaged citizen, and yes, even more productive … and to then see strangers pathologize that choice. My being trans almost never comes up. It’s a fact about my past that has relatively little bearing on my present, except that it made me more empathetic, more engaged in social justice. How does it hurt anyone else? What about my peace demands vitriol, violence, protections?
Sitting with Star by the pool, I couldn’t quite touch the truth, but I could talk about my gender without bawling. That was a step. It had taken a long time to allow any words to come out. When the subject came up in therapy, my reaction felt inordinate, lost in sobs.
“Why do I feel this way?” I’d plead. “What is this feeling that never goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can I have this life and be in such pain?”
Not long after my thirtieth birthday, I did a U-turn, I bailed, I stopped talking about it. I closed my eyes and hid it away. Somewhere I’d never find it. It would be four more years until I disclosed who I was.
I met my ex-spouse, Emma, around the same time. Meeting Emma let me leave it behind, a foggy memory. Falling madly in love, the energy was indisputable, just a hug would make my body shake. I threw myself in, and we got married quickly.
