New Archive:

March 2000 Issue, Volume 2

My Indie Queen

By Caroline Tiger

I've decided to go public with this before she gets any bigger. Before she's profiled in another major newspaper or magazine like the New York Times or the Village Voice or Harper's Bazaar, or nominated for another attention-getting award like the Golden Globe or Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress.

So here goes: I love Catherine Keener. And you can shelf that lesbian fantasy right now. It's not a sexual or even a single-white-female thing. It's more like I was in a place at a time, or rather, at a point in my life where we just clicked (well, it's more one-sided than that "we" suggests).

The first time I saw her was Living in Oblivion, directed by Tom DiCillo, who also loves Catherine Keener--he's cast her in all four movies he's directed: Living, Box of Moonlight, Johnny Suede and The Real Blonde. And I love him for it. Though CK certainly stood out in Living, the first seeds of my infatuation went unsown until one fateful night's rental of Walking and Talking. (Let the records show that this was out on video in 1996, long before any of the present hype.)

A friend and I watched the movie together and ended up fighting over which of us was more like Amelia, Keener's dysfunctional character, as opposed to Anne Heche's less dysfunctional, soon-to-be-married Laura. The timing was right for my fall, as my situation paralleled the protagonists'. They were nearing 30, and I was about to graduate from college--both transitional, vulnerable times in anyone's life.

In the movie (and if you haven't seen it, don't worry--I won't give away the ending), Amelia's best friend gets engaged while Amelia remains unhappily single; her cat gets cancer; her therapist won't take her back; and her job is so dead-end that it's only ever mentioned as a place she may be when she's not at home. Her pathos peaks when she sleeps with a video store clerk dubbed the "Ugly Guy" after he takes her to a sci-fi convention and enjoys a chuckle at the expense of her dying cat.

So why would my friend and I fight to inhabit Amelia's pathetic shoes instead of dewy-skinned Laura's, with the devoted fiancé, potentially fulfilling career and dry-clean-only wardrobe? Because Keener made it desirable to be in purgatory. She slouched through most of the film, wearing baggy jeans, t-shirts, a droopy string bag, and second-guessing herself. But there are also a few glimpses of an improved Amelia who sports stylish, hip ensembles (putting the droopy string bag in a whole new light) and asserts herself with a mooching ex-boyfriend and a take-all, give-nothing best friend. At one point she runs into a lake, drunk, under a full moon, in white cotton underthings, waving her arms in a sort of bizarre chicken dance. It's weird, but somehow magical--a celebration of her ability to evolve and improve, even devoid of purpose. It gave me hope, a necessary virtue considering my own lack of direction.

Midway through senior spring, I, an English major with few marketable skills, had not yet considered what to do with my life. Post-graduation life and all of its mammoth quandaries--how to avoid shacking up with my parents, how to make money to pay the rent/utilities, whether to go corporate or waitress to support my writing habit--was hurtling toward me full-speed. I was Kate Winslet, bobbing in the freezing, open sea, and Catherine Keener, my piece of wood.

More than any other early to mid-'90s indie queen, Keener's characters were complex, with real neuroses. Others entertained and inspired, but were caricatures and often difficult to relate to. Unpredictable, quirky and unique, Parker Posey would be fun to befriend, but let's face it--the notion of day-to-day life as a Party Girl is daunting. And Janeane Garofalo was funny, but is anyone that bitter? Lili Taylor--close, but ultimately too over the edge (after all, she shot Andy Warhol). And Hollywood's higher-grossing offerings, plastic constructions like Julia, Meg, and Demi were not even options.

Lately Keener has changed. She's gotten harder, grown out of her neurotic idealism and into more ball-busting roles: Your Friends and Neighbors, Being John Malkovich. She's hit the mainstream with sleek-straight hair, jutting cheekbones and a tailored urban wardrobe.

While I'm no dominatrix, I've also changed since 1996--shed my baggy jeans (or at least consigned them to home use) and some of my idealism. I've gained the special brand of cynicism that can only come from having a 9-to-5 job that sucks. The feminist inside of me, who once equated Wonderbras with the patriarchy, fled my shallow soul when I wore one of those same padded contraptions to a Jewish singles event. I've even begun to loathe the presence of smug college students. And high-schoolers--forget about it.

But I'll stop this rote GenX lament--we're all familiar with the ironic journey that will eventually dump us in old fartdom, if we're not careful. Suffice it to say that people change, but I'll always have a fondness for who Keener once was and be thankful that it's available for viewing on the small screen. Her Amelia will forever remind me of my own formerly idealistic self. And I'll continue to gobble up every column inch written about her and see every movie she's in. I'll root for her at the Oscars and sit through big-budget Simpatico and any other blockbuster she throws my way. Anything for an old friend.

Caroline Tiger is a writer in Philadelphia. And, yes, that is her real name.