Margot Tenenbaum

The chain-smoking, secret-keeping, queen of cool

Draped in that fortress of a mink coat, her eyes unreadable beneath layers of kohl, Margot Tenenbaum makes an unforgettable first impression in the film, The Royal Tenenbaums. Wes Anderson’s tragicomedy (and I promise, this newsletter isn’t exclusively about his characters) presents the Tenenbaums as a once-gifted but now floundering family, a collection of three former wunderkinder limping their way through adulthood, an intelligent mother who placed their education above all else, and... a son of a bitch father. Margot was the only adopted child and her early brilliance as a playwright and also winning a Pulitzer Prize in the ninth grade, suggested a dazzling future. But, life had other plans.

God. I was drawn to her from the start. She is moody, avoidant and complicated, much like myself.

Margot has mastered the art of building walls and I’m convinced that fur coat is more than just a style choice, it is like her armour. She’s emotionally impenetrable and if she does let someone in, it’s only on her terms. She ghosts people, of course she does, not out of malice but because disappearing is baked into who she is. Can we even blame her? Consider her father, Royal’s, offhand way of introducing her as his “adopted daughter,” or his ignorance of her middle name and casual dismissal of her talents. It’s no wonder she learned early on to retreat into herself, building a private world where no one, even those closest to her, could ever intrude. 

''She was known for her extreme secrecy.''

But extreme doesn’t quite cover it. There’s something almost pathological about her guardedness as if her secrets are the only things she can truly claim as her own. And while I may not share her habit of secrecy, I understand her desire to keep something back, to have parts of oneself reserved from the world. There's something sacred about divulging thoughtfully and with discretion rather than entirely. Protective privacy isn't the same as secrecy. We should never deceive or spin half-truths, but we should not give all of ourselves away either. That's my philosophy, anyway.

She hides the fact that she was briefly married and has been smoking for over two decades, secrets that not even her husband, Raleigh St. Clair, is privy to. Her love is another secret and something Raleigh will never have from her. That is reserved for Richie, her adopted brother, but it’s a love that is taboo and so naturally, never spoken about out loud. The irony is that her most genuine feelings are the ones she’s doomed to keep silent.

After two isolating, alienating years in a new country, retreating into a self-imposed Margot-esque exile, I have been—and still am—an outsider. I have felt profound loneliness, I have felt lost. And so, my heart breaks for her.

Loving Margot isn’t easy, nor is befriending her, if that were even possible. But if you had her in your life, she would be the kind of friend who would never push. She wouldn’t force you into vulnerability you’re not ready for nor ask a million questions. She would let you exist without judgement and sit with you in silence and if you spoke, she would listen. Sometimes, that is all we really want from a friend.

Yes, she is flawed, but she is hers to keep. And I'd kill to share a cigarette with her on some old rooftop, lost in music and shared melancholy.