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.