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Does Margot Robbie have to be good at everything? The woman physically perfect enough to play Barbie is also an excellent actor with three Oscar noms to her credit, amid dozens of other awards and nominations, plays co-ed ice hockey, and produces substantive hit movies with an admirable track record.
And as if that weren’t enough, the woman is one hell of a storyteller.
This post isn’t a love letter to Robbie (although who could blame a girl?). But regular readers know how much I proselytize the value of analyzing other people’s stories as the most effective way to learn what makes story work, assessing it with an objective editorial eye that can feel almost impossible to attain on your own stories.
Read more: “How to Read Like an Editor”
So when Margot Robbie held the SmartLess podcast hosts in the palm of her hand during a recent interview as she told a story about her audition for her breakout role in The Wolf of Wall Street, it caught my attention: not just for the story itself (and we’ll get to that), but the fact that on a show where guests often have trouble getting a word in edgewise with the garrulous hosts—especially women—Robbie struck all three of them silent while she held court.
How Margot Robbie Tells a Story
Here’s the gist of the story, which the hosts set up ahead of time in asking about it: Robbie went from a taped audition to reading in the room with Leonardo DiCaprio and director Martin Scorsese, slapped DiCaprio, and landed the role.
If you haven’t already assumed it, being cast for a role in a major film after just two auditions, only one of them live (not to mention after assaulting the star) is fairly unheard-of.
Just as in publishing, there are numerous steps an actor usually has to tick off before actually getting to audition for the big names and ultimate decision makers (unless they are one of those: your Harrison Fords, your Meryl Streeps, your Reese Witherspoons). There are lots of gatekeepers and pre-vetting that usually mean multiple auditions, starting from the casting director and moving up the chain (if they don’t get ruled out along the way), and usually plenty of folks who weigh in on the final decisions—which, again as in publishing, may come only after interminable nail-biting and weeks of waiting. Most of what happens is rejection.
But sometimes, eventually, you get the call and you’re in.
(Fun side story: I remember thinking when I quit acting, “Wow, I never have to worry about being judged and repeatedly rejected ever again!” And then I went into publishing.)
So before Robbie even starts talking, listeners know the punch line ahead of time—what happens and the outcome. So how does she nonetheless manage to keep us—and the vociferous SmartLess hosts—on the edge of our seats?
She makes the story personal
Because we already know how things shook out, Robbie could easily just field the hosts’ questions and recap what happened. But instead she plunges us directly into the situation along with her, in the reality of where she was at the time: a fairly new young actor with few credits under her belt, called in unexpectedly from an audition tape.
“They said, you’re going to go meet with Marty. And I didn’t know who Marty was. I was like, Marty? And they’re like, Marty is what people call Martin Scorsese. And I was like, Whoa.”
She lets us experience her naivete with her directly—and her shocked reaction. We’re vicariously her, getting that call and feeling way out of our depth.
She introduces an obstacle and uses specific detail
Jumping straight to “And then I got the job” would let all the air out of the balloon. Robbie doesn’t rush it; she paints a picture so you are there with her, seeing the scene, living it.
Arriving for her in-person audition with “Marty and Leo,” she’s greeted by the casting director—another big name in the business. “I think I was wearing, like, you know, my boots and jeans and, like, a, I don’t know, long-sleeve shirt or something. And she was like, ‘Absolutely not. You’re going to go downstairs. You’re going to walk that way, and you’re going to walk into a place called Soho. There’s lots of shops, and you’re going to find a tight dress and the highest heels you can find and then you’re going to come back.’”
Friends, imagine it: You’re already a ball of nerves, a baby actor about to go into the room with two of the biggest names in your industry. Imagine how hard she must have prepped for this audition, psyched herself up. Imagine the level of stress and pressure walking into that room. And then you’re told right out of the gate that you’ve got it all wrong and you have to go shopping, all that built-up energy deflated and with the pressure of picking something appropriate and the ticking clock of getting your ass back to that office to show them what you’ve got.
You can imagine it—and you do—because Robbie’s deft storytelling puts you there with her.
She builds suspense and stakes to a clear climax
Trained in soap operas, Robbie was prepared: word-perfect on every line of all three scenes she was given.
And then Dicaprio went off-script: “Leo was throwing in ad-libs and improvising and I’d never, ever improvised before,” Robbie recounts. “I’d never seen another actor improvise before. So I was a bit thrown. I was like, What? Oh, that’s not in the script. Wait, what’s he doing? Okay. And I was like, Oh, my gosh. He doesn’t know his lines. Leo doesn’t know his lines. I was like, Wow, he’s improvving. Okay, shit.”
Notice how she lizard-brains the tension—she doesn’t sum up the situation; she plays it out beat by beat, letting us experience her panicked thoughts and reactions as the audition scene gets away from her and she feels utterly disoriented.
Read more: “Create Tension with Lizard-brain Writing”
This is when she ratchets the stakes up another notch in her storytelling: “I thought, Oh, God, I’m getting thrown out of this room in like 30 seconds. I’ve got 30 seconds to make an impression because this is not impressive so far.”
On the second scene she started riffing, going off-script, using “every swear word I know.” Things went well enough that they moved on to the third scene—and Robbie decided to pull out all the stops.
The scene was supposed to end with Robbie telling Leo’s character, “Now get over here and kiss me.”
“And I thought to myself, Wow, I could,” she says, again slowing the story down and playing the beats. “I could kiss Leonardo DiCaprio right now. Like, that would be so cool. I could tell all my girlfriends back home that that happened. That would be like a life experience. And I was walking towards him slowly, having this thought of, Maybe I just do it. Like, fuck it. And then I got close and I was like, Nah, this character wouldn’t do that. And I just went whack and slapped him instead.”
The hosts are rapt. The listeners are rapt.
Robbie has us all in the palm of her hand.
She plays out the resolution to a satisfying ending
Marty and Leo liked it and had her stay to workshop the scene even more. When they finally let her go, she recounts, Robbie took off her heels and started dancing in the elevator, knowing she did well.
But before the doors could close, the casting director called her back into the room.
At this point—especially considering readers know what happened—Robbie could end her tale: She got the role.
But she doesn’t; she keeps us hooked right till the end, playing it out in visual, vivid detail:
“And I walked back in, my heels still in my hands, and they were standing there, like, just smiling. And I was like, what’s up? And Marty just held out his hands like this and goes, ‘We would like to offer you the role.’ And then gave me the biggest hug.”
As I listened in the car, I was literally sitting forward in the driver’s seat, fully engaged in the story, a huge smile plastered on my face. I bet you’re smiling right now too. Thanks to Robbie’s adept storytelling we didn’t just get the information; we had an experience—right along with her. And judging by the way Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes, and Will Arnett hang on her every word, so did they.
(My husband suggests that it could also be that they were all on video together and the three hosts were simply struck dumb by her physical beauty and charisma, and I can’t even take exception or offense to his pointing this out because he’s not wrong and I would have been too.)
This was just a single small anecdote amid a casual interview—but paying attention to what makes it so riveting can give you an understanding of storytelling techniques that’s far more visceral than studying any amount of craft theory. Analyze how she lays the groundwork, hooks the listener, keeps escalating the stakes and suspense as she decides what to reveal when. She controls the pacing—she will not be rushed, unspools the story at her own pace, even when the hosts try to skip to the end. Notice how clearly and vividly she paints the picture, using granular, concrete details instead of broad generalizations.
Yes, some people seem to have an inborn ability to tell a riveting story. But the rest of us can study and learn from what they instinctively seem to know to improve and hone our own storytelling skills—and everything, as regular readers have undoubtedly heard me say—is story: books, of course, movies and TV shows, but also songs, advertisements, journalism articles, poems, even political propaganda. And interviews.
If you like reading these kinds of analyses, here are more from my blog.
If you want to experience Robbie’s full story and analyze it for yourself (you know I strongly recommend it), you can read the transcript here. But do yourself a favor and listen to it instead; it’s too much fun to hear her masterfully spin it out as the hosts breathlessly follow where she leads them.
Okay, authors, here’s what I’d love to hear this week: Who are the best storytellers you know, and what makes them so effective? Mine is my old roommate, and I’d sit on his bed with him every day when he came home eager to hear his latest tale of whatever happened to him that day. It didn’t matter how picayune the situation; he made it into an event full of humor and voice, and orchestrated me through it like a master conductor.
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6 Comments. Leave new
Your post today was riveting because you did, in telling Robbie’s story, exactly what she did. I was on the edge of my chair, laughing and seeing the scene in my mind. You should think about doing your writing again, just as a hobby. No pressure. I think you would have a ball!
The best storyteller I ever met was my father. He would come home from work and we’d gather around the kitchen table while he had a late dinner to hear all about the things that happened that day. I would sit mesmerized as he set the stage and then revealed the tension or unexpected outcome of the conflict. For example, my father was CEO of a hospital. He would recount a Board of Director’s meeting where some critical policy was under discussion and everyone in the room was waiting to hear his opinion. As he told it, he was smoking a big cigar and the ash began to accumulate on the end of the thing. Just as the tension was building to a crescendo, and everyone was watching the cigar and waiting in silence, the ash would drop off onto the table, breaking the spell. I wish I could tell a story as he did!
I have come to believe good storytelling is much like athletic achievement. You either have the genes for it or you don’t. Learning the craft can help, but the ability to mesmerize an audience is an instinct. Just my humble opinion. Tiffany, you have that instinct, by the way. Thank you for your post today; it was very entertaining.
How funny that you still remember his stories all this time later, Jeff–even ones about such quotidian things. It’s the same with my storyteller friend–my whole family still retells his stories.
I do think there’s an inborn instinct for it that some people have, but that is also a learnable skill, at least to some degree. As I write this I’m at the Erma Bombeck writers conference, full of comedians and authors and screenwriters and other artists, all teaching techniques to develop storytelling skills. And the other part of the equation is doing it, practicing, joining our skills.
Thanks for the kind words!
Love this article! And I, too, was on the edge of my seat reading it.
The best storyteller I know is probably my brother Neal. He was at least brilliant at bombast and shock-comedy.
We’re triplets (yes, Norm, Nathan, and Neal––and I, the ‘meta-middle child’ as the middle triplet in the middle of five sisters, was perhaps sentenced to being a writer/actor from the beginning). Though we grew up in a very conservative, religious American sub-culture, my brother Neal had a gift for the profane. He would serve it as a verbal garnish or meal at any moment, and it was often hilarious.
Some call it shock value, some call it inappropriate, but I was always in awe of his talent. Once, when he got home trick-or-treating with his fellow sixteen-year-old best friend Wayne, he casually told the story of the evening:
Wayne’s parents, too tired to take their seven-year old youngest child trick or treating, allowed (the devious duo) Wayne and Neal to take over their duties that year.
Neal built up the tension between their plans vs. typical Halloween night etiquette in our conservative, religious neighborhood. They convinced Wayne’s little brother that “you get a LOT MORE candy if you say the magic phrase.”
As he spun the tale, he stretched the anticipation. The boy’s wide eyes and trusting face nodded. Wayne’s little brother was learning how the big boys did it. This would be the best Halloween EVER.
I imagined the look on the face of a conservative, religious 80-year-old, answering the door, seeing a boy hold out his bag, thinking he’s getting the motherload of all candy as he exclaims the magic phrase, “BOO, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Then Neal hit me with the kicker:
The seven year old was dressed like a DEVIL.
After a few houses, Wayne’s little brother didn’t think the magic phrase was very magical.
I was on the floor laughing. I couldn’t breathe.
Maybe it was a location joke, and maybe time has caused the funny to disappear. You be the judge, fair reader. But even now, Neal’s ability to “go blue” with just the right comic timing is legendary.
I love this story! And I love your mischievous brother Neal. I too am a BIG fan of well-used profanity to enhance a story or its humor or impact…and that’s Jedi-level. 🙂 Thanks for sharing this, Nathan (a triplet!?)–and how impactful that a story like this lives so vividly in you still. That’s the power of great story–and great storytellers.
I remember thinking when I quit acting, “Wow, I never have to worry about being judged and repeatedly rejected ever again!” And then I went into publishing.
Ha ha.
Descendants were interviewed individually for a book about my grandfather. Three of his 18 grandchildren told two stories, in similar details, and each of us tearing up by the end. The stories, as family lore, made such an impact that three generations know the blessing of escaping war, poverty, pograms, food insecurity, and potential early death. He told us as a masterful storyteller, but we retold the stories to remind us to be forever grateful for safety and freedom.
Story helps our histories endure for sure. How lovely that so many people had such lovely ones to share about your grandfather, along with his own stories. That not only says a lot about him, but must feel like a gift to you, to have that legacy of his to hold on to. Thanks for sharing, Deborah.