On Sunday night, I was not rooting for Mickey Rourke to win Best Actor at The Oscars. Nor did I want Brad Pitt, Frank Langella, or the eventual winner, Sean Penn, to take home the little gold dude. Why? Because I have a
Richard Jenkins connection. He attended my alma mater,
Illinois Wesleyan University, back in the day, and I wanted the Titans to represent.
My Richard Jenkins connection does not end there—oh, no. It just so happens that his
lovely daughter, also an actor, was just one graduating class ahead of mine at the ‘WU. Everyone on campus knew her for her dark good looks and famous movie star father. Although, as in Hollywood, no one knew his name in
Bloomington, either. We just knew that he was in
Wild at Heart. In fact, for the longest time, I thought her father was Harry Dean Stanton.
Despite possessing what I determined to be a mediocre talent, the young Miss Jenkins managed to score plum roles in The School of Theatre Arts’ productions (
which are magnificent, by the way), most notably “Grusha” in Brecht’s
The Caucasian Chalk Circle. (I must confess that my lukewarm review of her performance may have had more to do with my attraction to the actor who played Grusha’s love interest than with any real flaw in her acting. More than eleven years have passed since these events, but I was recently irritated to discover that the two of them are totally Facebook friends. Grrrrrrr. But I digress…)
If any of you are familiar with
The Caucasian Chalk Circle, you will know that it is a weird, weird play. This particular staging involved decapitated heads and a lot of Doc Martens and flannel. After being hired to photograph publicity stills and headshots of the cast, the combination of jealousy and unrelenting Brechtian weirdness might have caused me to become a little unhealthily obsessed with Miss Jenkins.
My fascination with her beauty and starry roots should have prompted me to strike up a friendship with her, but that’s
just not what girls do. Instead, I formed a little hater group and talked as much smack as possible. The fact that she was completely unaware of our malevolent little cell was completely inconsequential.
The play went on. Richard Jenkins actually came to opening night, doing nothing to dispel my misconception that he was Harry Dean Stanton. His daughter moved to New York, and I moved to Chicago. I forgot all about her, until
The Visitor, the Oscar buzz, and the Best Actor nomination.
At first, I transformed right back into a green-eyed monster. “Great,” I thought, “Now she’ll probably get to go to the freaking Oscars!” Then I thought, “Wow! What is wrong with me? I’ve lived all over the world! I met all kinds of celebrities working in New York! I get to be in advertising! I am such a jerk-face!” It was a revelation.
Which brings me back to Sunday night. I was disappointed for Wesleyan and for Richard Jenkins that he didn’t win, but it was exciting to see him honored. And although I didn’t see my old classmate in the crowds on television, I do hope that she got into the Vanity Fair party, or Elton John’s soiree, or at least The Governor’s Ball. After all, she has a pretty sweet Richard Jenkins connection.
—Lisa
