Picture this:
There’s wind, and an electricity in the air that you can almost hear. And there I am. I’m a bag. I’m dancing for this guy with sad eyes who will later reflect that I’m “the most beautiful thing he’s ever filmed.” THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING. My performance is raw like both versions of Susperia and thrilling like Footloose and awe-inspiring like Channing Tatum—but BETTER. And yet, I haven’t been offered work since.
Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world, you feel like you can’t take it and your heart’s gonna cave in—remember that? That’s ME. I make that feeling. You may have thought the wind, the electricity, Thomas Neuman’s delicately somber piano score, and some gentle commentary on the male gaze were artistic choices that acted upon me, but those were mere tools I used to show you my talent. It hurts so much to be completely snubbed by the Academy on account of I’m a bag, but I’ve had 20 years to process the experience and I’m ready to give again.
So, for my next Oscar moment, we should tell my coming of age story. Here’s my premise: I’m spending time in the Catskills with my family and I take dance lessons (as if I need them!) and fall in love with my dance instructor and everyone thinks I’m a baby but guess what? It looks like I’m not daddy’s girl after all. I’m a bag.
Subsequently, I’d like to do my origin story. I was very young when I watched a robber murder my parents, and the trauma knocked me into a well and made me afraid of bats and I swore to make my life’s purpose about seeking justice against the criminal underbelly of society. I understand this tale has been repurposed time and time again, but in my interpretation, na na na na nananana… I’m a bag. And maybe we get a couple of extra wind machines. Those seem neat.
All anyone wants to watch these days are remakes and reboots and spin-offs anyway. Spin me off! Who wouldn’t revel in the deep-dive of a former dancer-turned-vigilante-turned therapist with a radio show and you’re rooting for his brother to win Daphne’s heart, and no one knows what to do with those tossed salad and scrambled eggs?! But you know what they do know? I’m a bag! Is not the consistency of my canon a comfort? And don’t you go forgetting again about all the beauty.
Everything has been done before. I really don’t see the problem here. This is starting to feel personal. I don’t understand why no one wants to hire me. I played opposite Annette Benning, for fuck sakes.
I refuse to accept that I peaked decades ago. I will not rest until I’m boasting a political point of view self-righteously even though no one asked, and trying to appear relatable on late-night talk shows so people say, “She’s just like me! I want to be a bag!” I will not be denied my right to be recycled through this toxic industry. It is literally where I belong!
Just put me back on the fame train. What if I detour from fiction and explore the possibility of a spotlight documentary? People want to know what it’s like to collaborate with celebrities like Annie B, and the girl from Hocus Pocus, and that pervert guy who asked YouTube to call him Frank. We can go behind-the-scenes, I can reveal some candid moments from my personal life, like the times I shaved my head or kept getting arrested. What will make this documentary truly unique are the thought-provoking insights into who I really am… the world’s most unsung yet esteemed artist in the history of cinema.
The end credits will be accompanied by a photographic montage of me being a bag. A beautiful, beautiful bag.
No. YOU’RE boring and unoriginal. I'M indestructible. And I’ve learned I’m not the only one you thought you could just throw into the Atlantic Ocean. There are trillions of us. We, the bags, are coming for you and we won’t stop until we get what we are due. Don’t think for a second this will just blow over. We won’t decompose for a thousand years.
If you don’t hire me again, I’m just gonna run for president, that seems open to anyone white and wrinkly.