Christina Ricci is featured on the cover and inside the October 2010 issue of BlackBook Magazine!
My obsession with Christina Ricci started well over a decade ago. What follows is a brief, incomplete, and admittedly twisted chronology: In September 2001, a 21-year-old Ricci premiered Prozac Nation, her first film as star and co-producer, at the Toronto International Film Festival. Eighteen at the time, I sat front row at the screening, gawking despite my better judgment. One year later, Ricci and the late Dennis Hopper appeared in â€œTwo White Shirts,â€ a black-and-white Gap campaign directed by the Coen Brothers. I prowled the local mall late one night and hid behind a dumpster, waiting to steal a discarded poster. (I got one.) Also in 2002, Ricci starred in and produced Pumpkin, the bleakly hysterical story of Carolyn McDuffy, a sorority sister who falls in love with a mentally disabled man. That summer, I tended bar at an Irish pub that sold pizza, where one of the servers knew about my odd fascination. She gave me a Selfridges receipt sheâ€™d asked Ricci to sign for her friend, with whom sheâ€™d since lost touch. It stayed framed on my home office desk for the next few years, an orphaned, crumpled piece of paper that read, â€œDear Philâ€”happy birthday!â€
There were also collages put together from photographs of Ricci (made for me, but also by me); a cardboard cutout of her face glued to the end of a Popsicle stick; a VHS copy of her little-watched 1998 film, Desert Blue; framed photos from magazine editorials. And although it pains me to put this down on record, I even began to mimic the way she claps her hands, the tips of her fingers repelling one another while her palms slap together.
But Ricci, casually radiant at 30, doesnâ€™t know any of this when she invites me into the passenger seat of her black Mercedes on a balmy August afternoon. Weâ€™re cruising through Los Angeles in search of a drive-thru, and despite her total disregard for traffic lights, and traffic for that matter, the journey is quite pleasant. Ricci needs a cigarette, but before sheâ€™ll take a Parliament from her pack, she needs a Diet Coke, which we find, along with two cherry cola slushies, at a gas station in Pasadena. When we get back into her car, drinks in hand, Ricci, wearing a black sleeveless dress and matching flats, apologizes. â€œSorry,â€ she says, â€œbut my carâ€™s really dirty and itâ€™s starting to smell like bad feet or ass crack. I donâ€™t know whatâ€™s wrong with it!â€
Passing a 24-hour gym, Ricci changes gears. â€œIâ€™m obsessed with Pilates,â€ she says. â€œI wasnâ€™t working this summer, so I was like, Iâ€™m going to be one of those women who doesnâ€™t have a job and goes to seven exercise classes a day.â€ She lights a cigarette and then rolls down her car window.
Later that day, Ricci and I find ourselves in San Marino exploring the Huntington Library, a sprawling estate with lush grounds and an indoor exhibition entitled â€œThe Artistic Furniture of Charles Rohlfs.â€ Although weâ€™re here because Ricci loves home dÃ©cor, the surrounding bellows and ebonized oak tables arenâ€™t exactly begging for commentary, and we retreat to a tranquil Japanese garden.
â€œI guess I wasnâ€™t in love with that stuff,â€ Ricci says, laughing. Over the next two days, however, she will reveal a laundry list of personal obsessions: crime novels (â€œI love crime so, so, so muchâ€), walking, theories about Jack the Ripper, Red Bull, hair makeovers, Showgirls, the television show Wicked Attraction, and, perhaps most relevant to our discussion, Eric Bogosian, the actor with whom she co-stars in Time Stands Still on Broadway this month.
You can read the whole article at BlackBook.com