Getting Everything You Wanted: Why I cry everytime I watch Billie Eilish’s Vanity Fair interviews
Every year, I watch Billie Eilish’s Vanity Fair interview. You know, the one where she sits on a chair and answers the same questions that she did the previous year. They show her the old answers, and she gives new ones to the same questions, some surprising, some not so much.
And every year, as I watch this interview, I cry. Sometimes it is just a tearing up, and sometimes (I’m not embarrassed to admit) it’s a full-blown weeping and hiccupping.
Am I a Billie Eilish fan?
Let’s see: I love her music — it’s colourful and different, and it speaks with a scarring honesty to the side of me that struggles with depression. Many of her songs are on my playlist. The odds are high that I could sing some of her songs in their entirety, simply from memory. When her documentary came out, I couldn’t stop talking about what an important take it was on depression and stardom.
But there are months where I forget about her existence. I listen to other music, and the noise of true-crime documentaries and comedy podcasts drown out her soothing, liquid voice. Sometimes, I skip her songs when it appears on shuffle, and when she releases new music, I get bored to listen to it.
So, am I a fan? I don’t know what that word means because my music taste is diverse and transitory.
In the times when I’m too depressed to appreciate any art or bored of everything pop culture, I tell myself that there is no way I’m going to cry at her Vanity Fair interview. And then I cry.
Why? What is so overpowering about watching a person grow up right in front of my eyes? Watching them watch themselves grow up?
Perhaps it is the reminder of another year gone by. Maybe, I remember all the things I didn’t accomplish and the things I did, the obstacles I overcame, the people I lost along the way.
But, I think, what really gets to me is Billie’s face. That first year, she looked like a baby. At fifteen, she had this warm smile across her tiny face, and wide expressive eyes that seemed to look at the world with an awe that only a child can have.
Everyone talks about that second year. Billie herself talks about it. Of course, she was severely depressed. The light in her eyes had disappeared. Her voice had slowed down. Her answers were filled with pain that crawled its way through my screen, reminding me of similar moments I have lived through.
The third year, the green roots. The fourth, the fifth, and the sixth. Every year after the second one, her interviews surprised me. That third year, she seemed to me so bruised — as if she had considered herself beyond repair for a long time but was now learning how to unfurl and stand back up.
With the fourth and the fifth, I saw her face light back up, little by little. This time, it was not with an awe but with a gratitude for having these few moments of peace and connection. As if she knew how hard they were to come by and was happy to just be here.
The most important thing to me right now is being in touch with myself and how I am actually, really feeling, she muses this year. She watches her fourth-year self describing herself as a Billie Eilish parody, and she agrees that that year, she had felt like a fake version of herself.
This girl is twenty years old now. Was I this mature at twenty? Did I say things like I want to be in touch with how I am actually, really feeling? Did I prioritise that when I was twenty?
I can’t remember if I did, but I know that I say it now, and then, I forget about it. And then, I say it again, half-heartedly. And I forget to implement it. Then, I say it again. And I am mean to myself, and I lose sight of myself. Again.
I don’t know what the word fan means, but I know that I have a soft corner* for this girl. I can feel how much her life has pushed her to the edge and has forced her to become a deep-thinker beyond her years. And it pains me to know that a girl as sweet as her, who just wants to make music, has hurt so much at some point in her life. It pains me to know that she has a lot more suffering written in her destiny, as we all do.
What really makes me cry, though, is not the pain. The moments where she lights up and says Finneas is my best friend, or when she introduces us to her dog, are the ones that sting. The understanding of relationships anchored in her eyes when she says that Finneas is not around as much as he used to be but she knows he will always be there for her. The smirk she gives us when she says she has a boyfriend.
The openness with which she accepts her mother’s hug. And watching her mother grow older, too, and look both pained and happy that her daughter is growing up.
It is these moments of silent love that really make me weep like a child. In these moments, I am grateful, so grateful, for the little kindnesses the universe bestows on us, even at our worst. In these moments, I am grateful that we grow older. There is mercy in that somewhere.
*While writing this essay, I found out that soft corner is an Indianism. I have used this word all my life, and it feels so second-nature to me that I’m surprised the rest of the world does not use it. This Indian English idiom means to have a special place in your heart for someone, often despite their drawbacks and without knowing why. A corner in your heart that is soft and easily bruised because you feel for them so much. I think this word is adorable, and everyone who speaks English should hear about it.
I do not own any of the images used in this essay. Images are all screenshots from the 2022 Vanity Fair YouTube Video “Billie Eilish: Same Interview, the Sixth year,” and have been picked solely for commentary.
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