Selma Blair is funny, but not in a daffy way, like her memorable turns in “Legally Blonde” or “Cruel Intentions” might have you expect. Stripped of a script or the lurid lens of a fashion shoot, she’s funny in a way that’s dark, dry, and dangerous. Her jokes cut like a razor blade, sharply, slyly, and letting the gallows humor bleed into a moment raw and real. In the documentary, “Introducing, Selma Blair,” the actress/model welcomes audiences into her home, as the reclusive star battles inner demons and a ruthless disability. Yet, the driving force of this film is rooted in Blair’s wit, which sings to her resilience.
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In October of 2018, Blair revealed in an Instagram post she’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS), a disease that attacks the brain and central nervous system, causing all kinds of debilitating effects. For Blair, her mobility was impaired, requiring her to use a cane. But—she tut-tuts—not just any cane. She urges others to “at least Google ‘chic canes'” because there is no excuse for bad fashion. The 47-year-old makes this cheeky declaration while dressed up as “Sunset Blvd’s” Norma Desmond, an ultra-glamorous (albeit fictional) movie star who became a recluse when the world became too much for her. The world has become too much for Blair. Too much stimulus throws her body into seizures and stymies her speech. In the film’s opening, the camera captures it all as Blair determinedly fights a stammer to explain what it feels like to lose control of her body.
The plot of this doc, directed by Rachel Fleit, follows Blair as she prepares for a stem cell transplant with many arduous requirements and the risk of death. Through photographs and video diaries, she reflects on her journey to this moment, recalling career highlights, public embarrassments, and the bliss she’s found in raising her son, Arthur. The most touching moments in the film are when Blair plays with the boy, who enjoys dodge ball and dancing with his mom. With others, Blair is ever ready with a smirking quip or a devastating punch line. For instance, on a phone call with her friend Carrie Fisher, she declares that she can’t talk right now, because “They are filming the last days of my life!” (It totally tracks that Blair and Fisher would be buds.) But with Arthur, Blair is soft, silly, and radiant.
Ahead of the procedure, she’ll endure chemotherapy, while her son is cared for by his father (Blair’s ex). Arthur is afraid of her losing her hair. So, she invites him to cut it off, giving this child some sense of control in this scary time. Gentle music plays over a montage of the playful haircut. While Fleit gives Blair the mic for a wealth of voiceover narration, insightful and vulnerable, this quiet moment beautifully distills what she’s fighting for. Yet, her battle against MS is not all Blair contends with.
She speaks frankly about deep insecurities, born from a mother who rarely expressed pride, only criticism. Of scoring a magazine cover, she jeered that her daughter looked “so unimportant.” Her reaction to Blair’s career-launching performance in “Cruel Intentions” was a sneered, “Did you have to use so much tongue?”
“My mother really tethered a darkness to me,” Blair reflects, drawing a clear contrast to how she interacts with her own child. Still, the shadow of this parental cruelty hangs over her as she looks back through various celebrity shoots, blaming herself for getting the shabby spot in a group spread. Thwarted aspirations of becoming a writer and assuming she wasn’t leading lady material are knitted in with how she tried to drown her insecurities (and physical pain) in booze and pills. Now sober, Blair looks back on her path with a mix of pity and awe, seeing the toxicity that plagued her, yet not able to completely step out of its muck.
Progress is a process, and rarely a straightforward one. This is true not only of mental health but also of her MS fight. Blair dreams of a Hollywood ending where this cutting-edge science can give her back all she’s lost. When it doesn’t, she falls into the familiar trap of blaming herself. Healing is a messy thing, and Blair lets us in to see it all, from the physical agony and self-loathing to the joy and exaltation of a jaunty dance or a wry one-liner.
A cynic might argue that her mother’s rejection has Blair endlessly chasing attention however she can, including a warts ad all doc. I’d argue Blair is ready to truly be seen. She is so much more than the quirky supporting actress, the smirking fashion model, and the glamorous role model for people with disabilities. She’s a mom. She’s a mess. She’s a survivor. She’s a “mouthy” woman with so much on her mind that she’s twice bought a vibrator instead of a neck massager. But hey, if it works, it works! (And she’ll show you how it works, and hilariously so.)
Long before all of us were holed up in our houses for our health, Blair was there. In this solitude, she’s had the space to find herself, for better and worse. By allowing Fleit and her cameras in, she wants us to not just know her but also learn from her whatever we can. Blair’s not totally certain what that might be. Maybe something about processing pain? Maybe something about turning toward joy? Maybe the importance of letting go? As Fleit’s film fumbles for a final thought, the uncertainty creeps back in over elegant and subversive images of her floating facedown in a pool. Norma Desmond revisited. But instead of condemned, she is content. For now. After all, it’s a process. [A-]
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