Over the course of a nightlong quest to reach a house party, they will watch lesbian porn (for educational purposes, naturally), impersonate armed muggers, and get so stoned on strawberries spiked with a mysterious substance that, in a memorable two-minute stop-motion sequence that took a Portland animation studio four months to produce, they turn into Barbie dolls.īooksmart said something real and relatable about how it feels to be a modern young woman who is confident, intelligent, motivated, and yet, as an earlier classic put it, clueless. The film follows two best friends, played by Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever, as they try to make amends, on the last day of high school, for having spent the past four years studying while snobbishly judging the exploits of their more libertine classmates.
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The relief was incredible.” She goes on, “You know, Tarantino always says, ‘Make the movie only you can make.’ So I knew that with my first opportunity, I had to make something that just had my DNA all over it.” “Then people started coming up to me saying that they loved it. “I’ll never forget the moment at South by Southwest when we premiered it, and I was shaking backstage thinking, I’ve never felt more exposed,” Wilde tells me. Then, in 2019, Wilde released her first feature, Booksmart, and reinvented herself as something else entirely: a filmmaker.
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(Remy “Thirteen” Hadley, the doctor whom Wilde portrayed for five seasons on House, was also bi-not so much an identity, in the blunt schema of aughts-era mainstream entertainment, but more as a shorthand for a certain reckless, sultry élan.)īut even as Wilde demonstrated, early in her career, that she could carry prime-time TV and big-budget Hollywood projects, she proved herself as an actor who excelled at teasing out the complexities of more nuanced roles: as a grieving mother in Reed Morano’s Meadowland, or as a just-one-of-the-guys girl whose breezy swagger hides a bruised heart in mumblecore king Joe Swanberg’s Drinking Buddies. That role defined a certain Wilde type: edgy and enigmatic, tough yet feminine, lusted after by men and women alike. “She’s eternally youthful.” (For proof, consider a recent unretouched shoot that Wilde did, partly in the nude, for True Botanicals, the beauty and skin-care brand for which she serves as an ambassador.) But I might argue that Wilde-who looks fresh and relaxed in light-wash jeans and a soft peach T-shirt, her nails painted fire-truck red, her feline eyes as piercing as ever-is even more striking now, at 37, than she was at 20, when I, along with the rest of millennial America, first glimpsed her as bisexual bar-owner Alex Kelly on The O.C. “The woman hasn’t aged,” the cinematographer Matthew Libatique, who shot Don’t Worry Darling, and first worked with Wilde on the 2011 sci-fi Western Cowboys and Aliens, tells me. Nor, she laughingly assures me, is she responsible for the two unseasonal gingerbread houses displayed on the kitchen counter, which are the handiwork of her kids, Otis, seven, and Daisy, five, whom she shares with her ex-fiancé, Jason Sudeikis. So Wilde can’t take credit for the cheeky art selection or the cheerful, modern decor, or for the sumptuous backyard pool that beckons from every angle of the first floor.
When Wilde rented it this past spring, it had already been furnished in a precisely curated, Instagrammable style we might be in a Design Within Reach catalog. This house is a respite from all that scrutiny. She can count, among her myriad accomplishments, winning the “hottest Olivia” accolade in Spike TV’s Guys Choice Awards in 2010 lately, she’s been under the public microscope alongside her beau, Harry Styles, who, on the day of my visit, is off trotting the globe for his Love On Tour concerts. Wilde, who has spent her nearly two-decade-long acting career as an object of male veneration, knows a thing or two about the rewards, and the risks, of being subjected to a prurient, if admiring, gaze. “This is how we want them,” Wilde deadpans from her perch on a mustard-colored velvet sofa. Male butts, to be exact: smooth and shapely and dripping with water as the men they belong to emerge from a swimming pool in the black-and-white photograph that is on the wall of her sunny living room.
It’s a shining late September morning in Los Angeles and Olivia Wilde is sitting, cross-legged, in front of a bunch of bare butts.
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