Candor, But Make It Camp: Busy Philipps and Instagram Realness
There are 11 posts in my “Saved” folder on Instagram. Scrolling through, you’ll find Rainn Wilson of The Office fame talking about hemorrhoids and putting his pet pig in a plastic pool, Ed Helms, also of The Office fame, singing a Hamilton show tune with banjo accompaniment, and a golden retriever puppy, not of The Office fame, running through snow. Slim pickings, I guess, but far more compelling than cooking videos or knives slicing multicolored sand.
My favorite saved video is from actress and influencer Busy Philipps’ feed, February 2017, a reaction to some commotion on her bedroom balcony. “Oh my God, do raccoons murder one another after having sex? Because that’s what it sounds like is happening.” Philipps’ distress is perfectly telegraphed by her face, unmistakably one of an actress: expressive eyes and exaggerated lips, eyebrows that shoot up and back down like her post-award-show emotions. What makes the video so hilarious and addictive, though, is the fact that Philipps invites us into the pure chaos of this moment. At the time this video was filmed, Philipps hadn’t yet adopted the conspiratorial “you guys!” that would become her catchphrase, but it’s certainly implied.
Philipps, of course, isn’t unique among Instagram influencers in giving her followers the sense that she’s drawing us into her “real” life. But she doesn’t fit the typical influencer description: it wasn’t a perfectly cultivated feed and well-timed sponsorships that put her in the public eye. Philipps is an (admittedly B-list) actress who hit her peak in the ’90s with shows like Dawson’s Creek and Freaks and Geeks. She’s now 40 years old with two kids, a husband, and a circle of famous and non-famous friends alike. Unlike so many others with follower counts in the millions, it becomes instantly clear when you scroll through Philipps’ feed that Instagram isn’t her whole world.
It’s the paradoxical balance Phillips strikes between blatant oversharing and a genuine existence offscreen that keeps me watching. She’s self-obsessed enough to make Instagram a real presence in her life… and self-aware enough to realize that, given the fullness of her life otherwise, this impulse is slightly ridiculous. Philipps’s offscreen relationships — with her children, her husband, her friends — intersect both positively and negatively with her online persona, and she hides none of it.
Phillips’ long, talk-y Instagram Stories brim with iconic moments: a rant at a couple who dropped a glass that shattered on her restaurant table and didn’t apologize, a lullaby to her youngest daughter, and her daily Lekfit workout video — all in one day. But my favorite installments by far are those in which her husband, director Mark Silverstein, is just offscreen. Philipps’s hamming it up for the camera, angling her phone and pouting her lips, or telling a convoluted tale, and right in the thick of it, her eyes dart to Silverstein — famously not a fan of being featured in her Stories. Philipps laughs, and the meaning is clear: I know, I know, we’re lying in bed and this is our story and I’m crazy to bring them in on it. But it’s fun, she seems to plead. In his rare on-camera appearances, Silverstein seems to be some combination of awestruck and bemused with his wife: Philipps just does her thing.
In these moments, I realize that there are parts of Philipps’ life I’ll never be privy to. Not only do they make her more human to me, but they make me trust her insane openness. When she posts a picture of herself crying in a restaurant because it’s all just too much, I don’t roll my eyes and think, what an obvious attention-grab. I bawled in a bowling alley when I learned that my ninth-grade crush liked someone else; as much as I might be loath to admit it, I can relate!
And even if I can’t relate to Philipps’s impulse to broadcast her emotional tumult for all the world to see — let alone to her penchant for weekly facials and pricey tequila — I believe she’s coming from a genuine place. When Philipps talks about her struggles with anxiety and hypochondria on her podcast with Steve Agee, I’m comforted by the specific and unexpected flashes of kinship I feel. Philipps’s candor borders on campy, but I love that someone’s giving voice to my weirdest neurouses — and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want some of her boldness for myself.
A few years ago, I noticed a gold necklace spelling out “Anxiety” in many of Philipps’s Stories. She shouted out its designer, her friend and workout buddy Jen Gotch, so I clicked over to her page to find the necklace. Surprised to see it wasn’t painfully expensive, I bought one on a whim. When it arrived in the mail, I started over-thinking: what if people notice me for the wrong reasons? What if they think the necklace is over-the-top or disrespectful? I soon realized I needed to suck it up, pull a Busy, and say “to hell with it.” I was more than ready to wear a little piece of the illness I’d been struggling with for as long as I could remember, the one I never talked about, on my sleeve — or rather, on my collarbone. I wanted to have conversations that might be difficult but felt honest and necessary. I knew I’d never cry on camera, don giant pink sunglasses, or film myself sweating, but I could wear this necklace every day.
And I did, until one day I noticed it was gone. Every anxious moment in the past year, I’d been able to rub it between my fingers and remind myself that I could conquer the word I was brave enough to wear, but now that comfort had disappeared. Just when I was on the brink of panic, I remembered the sharp, wild woman who sold it to me. What would Busy do? Consult her crystals, talk to her therapist, and conclude that the necklace fell off because she’d finally gathered more than enough strength without it. Then she’d lie down on the kitchen floor — where I’d happily join her — and film herself.
