The summer of 2016 was that of Margot Robbie. This, at least, said Vanity Fair in its August issue. On the cover, Patrick Demarchelier's photo showed her in a white bikini, with her head tilted and her hand on her blond hair. Inside, Rich Cohen's profile presented her as the new “next door neighbor” in Hollywood.
In both cases, the focus was its beauty. The idea that one took from that article is that Robbie was the new blonde of the moment. That her star would go out as soon as another young, beautiful and ambitious actress took her place. But to settle for a summer would have been to admit that a woman only counts when she is radiant.
That article was not the only one that made Robbie's career subject to her appearance. To some extent it was understandable. It came from being known as Naomi Lapaglia in the Wolf of Wall Street, a film whose script described her character as "the sexiest blonde in history." That role made her a sex symbol. Or, as Vogue wrote, she "permanently housed her in the collective male libido." But far from accommodating herself in the prototype of a cannon woman, she worked to reorient the public's attention away from her body.
Today, Robbie has two Oscars nominations and has its own production company, LuckyChap. It embodies a new model of female superstar, who not only triumphs at the box office but decides how to do it. A way to take charge of her career that until recently seemed reserved for male actors. They always had the power, money and influence necessary to be able to found their own producers. LuckyChap wants to end the masculinity of the film business, and is therefore focused on promoting female talent.
Robbie didn't imagine any of this. She grew up on a farm in northwestern Australia. That is to say: far from everything. It was a country girl who never considered acting. She began working as a teenager to help her mother and three siblings, whom her father had abandoned while she was still in diapers. She was a waitress, made snacks in Subway and cleaned houses. With 16 years she made her first role in a small independent film. Enough so that, once finished the institute, she moved to Melbourne and appeared in casting of Neighbors, the longest-running soap opera in the country's history. She achieved the paper.
The series fell short very soon. After working on her American accent, she moved to Los Angeles and got a role in Pan-Am, a series that tried to capitalize on mid-century post-Mad Men nostalgia but did not reach the second season. Robbie didn't care much. First, because she was not convinced by the change in direction imposed by ABC executives after the disappointing audience results. Second, because I was about to get the role that would throw her to stardom.
That article was not the only one that made Robbie's career subject to her appearance. To some extent it was understandable. It came from being known as Naomi Lapaglia in the Wolf of Wall Street, a film whose script described her character as "the sexiest blonde in history." That role made her a sex symbol. Or, as Vogue wrote, she "permanently housed her in the collective male libido." But far from accommodating herself in the prototype of a cannon woman, she worked to reorient the public's attention away from her body.
Today, Robbie has two Oscars nominations and has its own production company, LuckyChap. It embodies a new model of female superstar, who not only triumphs at the box office but decides how to do it. A way to take charge of her career that until recently seemed reserved for male actors. They always had the power, money and influence necessary to be able to found their own producers. LuckyChap wants to end the masculinity of the film business, and is therefore focused on promoting female talent.
Robbie didn't imagine any of this. She grew up on a farm in northwestern Australia. That is to say: far from everything. It was a country girl who never considered acting. She began working as a teenager to help her mother and three siblings, whom her father had abandoned while she was still in diapers. She was a waitress, made snacks in Subway and cleaned houses. With 16 years she made her first role in a small independent film. Enough so that, once finished the institute, she moved to Melbourne and appeared in casting of Neighbors, the longest-running soap opera in the country's history. She achieved the paper.
The series fell short very soon. After working on her American accent, she moved to Los Angeles and got a role in Pan-Am, a series that tried to capitalize on mid-century post-Mad Men nostalgia but did not reach the second season. Robbie didn't care much. First, because she was not convinced by the change in direction imposed by ABC executives after the disappointing audience results. Second, because I was about to get the role that would throw her to stardom.