An Armageddon love story
For reasons that will be readily misunderstood as cultural snobbery, Armageddon, New Zealand’s annual gathering of science fiction nerds, trading card boffins and amateur hour dress-up, has never appealed. I’m not exactly sure why – maybe just frustration the whole thing came too late.
When it kicked-off in 1995 I was already in sight of 30 – too old and self-conscious to squeeze into costumes, too young to play Yoda without make-up.
In 2018, all that changed. A jawdropping miracle occurred. Armageddon secured the services of the woman of my dreams. Well, the woman of my dreams that wasn’t already my wife. The one that played Wednesday Adams, who tap-danced charmingly in
Buffalo 66 and put on a Nixon mask and ‘‘fooled around’’ in The Ice Storm. The one who made out with Justin Timberlake – and everyone else – in Black Snake Moan. Liza Bump, diving into the swimming pool in Ally Mcbeal. A petite, blueclad air hostess in Pan Am,
America’s favourite axe-wielder in
Lizzie Borden and F Scott Fitzgerald’s misunderstood wife Zelda – the Jami-lee Ross of her day – in Z: The Beginning of Everything.
Christina Ricci was coming to town. To Auckland, to be precise, which necessitated an early morning wake up, a Sunday drive and an understanding spouse. We would lose our Armageddon virginity together. If Janine was jealous I was getting to meet my movie-star crush she only told me a handful times. Could I help it that Cary Grant died when she was still in nappies?
Traffic was light for a long weekend, parking surprisingly effortless and the Cosplay hoards nowhere near as intimidating as feared. After a navigational misstep or two we made it to the auditorium in time for Christina’s Q and A session. Five-hundred of the faithful had gathered, all poised to gush about what Casper had meant to them in the summer of 95. I had not anticipated being able to ask a question. Janine insisted I get in line and do just that.
Clad in a full-length black dress, sporting blonde shoulder-length hair, which fell upon and somewhat obscured her trademark forehead, Ricci survived the introduction of the bearded MC. Unsurprisingly, he towered over her. Just over 5-foot in the old money, she is in the tradition of vertically challenged movie stars, marginally taller than Veronica Lake and Judy Garland, if shorter than Alan Ladd.
Ricci knows no physical dimension. Talent has no relationship to height. Slight of frame she might be, but the smile and the wide eyes betray a lively personality, happy to answer questions she’s fielded hundreds of times before. ‘‘What was it like to work with X, Y or Z?’’ Anjelica and Cher were inspirational and encouraging, apparently. John Cusack, whom Ricci admired from afar, was charm itself. He had no discernible odour, outside of the costume he was wearing, she says, in response to a query from a creepy middle-aged man.
Aware I fall into the same category, when my time at the microphone comes I elect not to ask about Buffalo 66. Best avoid references to scanty costumes and Vincent Gallo. My fallback quip is cliche itself. ‘‘Of all your movies, what’s your favourite?’’ I stammer. Ricci paused, almost as if she had never been asked this one before. Thinking for a moment, she decides it’s... Buffalo 66. How perfect. ‘‘Did you have to learn to tap?’’ I reply, pushing my luck with a supplementary question. We share a moment as she reminisces about a dance class two decades ago. ‘‘What you see in the film is what I can do,’’ is the parting comment.
The Q and A crystalised my thinking about Ricci’s appeal. Sure, in some roles she is sexy. In a few she’s in the nude. These topics were addressed in a matter-of-fact manner. Ricci made clear she’s nobody’s victim and everything she’s ever done on screen has been for a precise, dramatic reason.
That directness, the frankness of expression, sometimes deadpan, sometimes not, is the real essence of her stardom. Even as Wednesday Adams – or, especially as Wednesday Adams – she speaks the truth.
Half an hour later we line up for the pre-paid photographic opportunity. Ricci beams in recognition. We are thanked for our questions. We let on that we know her husband’s cousin. She’s polite and interested, however artificial the circumstances. Not a cinematic goddess, something a lot more interesting: a warm and genuine human being.