The story inside this issue of The Hollywood Reporter is about how Emily Blunt and John Krasinski blew everyone away with A Quiet Place — her with her performance, him by writing/directing a smash hit when people doubted his skill set at both. But if you judge by the cover, it’s the tale of a beautiful actress who has hidden her secret battle with seasonal allergies until she could no longer hide her swollen eyelids, and the husband who has meditated upon her pain for months before deciding they should start a Go Fund Me for some prescription Zantac and a clinical trial for a nasolabial skin transplant. “The Kleenex damage to her nasal tissue is staggering,” he will say, a lone tear snaking down into his beard hair. “We might not be able to have a child… who doesn’t also have seasonal allergies. There’s got to be a better way.” Pressing his lips to her cheek as she mouth-breathes, he will whisper, “She is courage.”
The story about them is every story that’s been written about them in the last year: the anecdote about how he wrote it for her but didn’t dare ask in case she felt pressured to say yes; how she read the script on a plane and couldn’t bear NOT to do it; how they’re both good at what they do; how Matt Damon likes them; how apparently astonishing it is that they can be married and then also work together without it ruining their lives. Seriously, that seems to shock the hell out of everyone. Meanwhile, I don’t remember anyone bugging out about this with Emily and Kumail — I use their first names like I know them — with The Big Sick, for example, or with Paul Dano and Zoe Kazan with Wildlife. Personally, I loved working with Kevin. Are we the weird ones? Having said that, Kevin is excellent at his job, and all those people are also excellent at theirs; maybe if everyone stank it up then it would be terrible for all our relationships.
[T]oday, Blunt and Krasinski have ducked out of the house to the office of his production company, an airy old building in lower Manhattan, curled up together on a velvet sofa, and begin to open up. Back home, a brisket Blunt made is roasting in the oven and their daughters, Hazel, 4, and Violet, 2, are napping, watched over by family visiting from out of town.
I mean, just in case you thought the little lady couldn’t be domestic.
As for who asked whom out, “Probably me, I think,” Blunt says. At this, Krasinski pivots from his wife to me, affecting the look of Jim deadpanning to the camera in the offices of Dunder Mifflin after someone has said something stupid. “Yeah, right,” he counters. She insists: “I think it wasme.” “No,” he fires back. “It was me asking for a while and you took some time, and then we finally had a date.” Their first evening together involved pizza and his apartment in West Hollywood, and, based on the amount of time Krasinski is taking to answer this question, something else that he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to share. During his long pause, Blunt pulls a strand of her blond hair off Krasinski’s sweater, calls him “Kras,” and declares, “It’s so precious, I don’t want to talk about it. Is that all right?”
First, and most importantly: In 2012 Krasinski told Conan that their first date was at a gun range, so I don’t even know what weird bullshit they’re doing here. Either you did that, or you didn’t, but it’s on the record and on video, and I would’ve thought the reporter would’ve checked actually — as I did, in fact, because I myself was curious if this matched up with things they’d already said, and lo and behold it does not. But I only checked on that because I was already wondering about what is now point two: Is it even realistic that people would have no idea how their relationship began? Unless maybe they were hammered? And three, if you are celebrities who are interviewed frequently about themselves and about each other (if not often together), wouldn’t you be prepared to answer these questions, because wouldn’t you be utterly certain that they were coming? Any PR person worth his or her salt would be like, “Dudes, you’re doing a sit-down together about your partnership; if you don’t want to talk about the gun range because it won’t play well right now, then write something else, because you’re gonna get asked.” I assume the unspoken in this instance is either a) BANANAS drunken hookup(s), b) he took her to a gun range and she was like, “Freaky,” and didn’t see him again for a while until he wooed a bit harder, or c) that they hit it off at the gun range after blowing off some serious steam, took that shit back to his place, and honked like crazy all night, because they were two hot and charismatic single people and that’s often how it goes when hot and charismatic single people are alone together near a bed or a sofa or a mildly soft rug or even some cold hard Mexican ceramic tile. And that they don’t want to say that in print in case someday their daughters Google them. But the thing is, their daughters will Google them someday, and when that someday comes and they find this article, that’s absolutely what they’re going to ASSUME happened, so I have a PR 101 suggestion: Pick an alternate story — any story, any lie at all — and then get it straight with each other. Repeat it over dinner until you both almost believe it’s true. Tell us that you stayed up until 7 a.m. playing Settlers of Catan, or Googling cat videos, or prank-calling every celebrity in each other’s mobile phones. Anything you want! We’ll never know! Hell, stick to the gun range story WHICH YOU ALREADY TOLD EVERYONE, even if you think it’ll be unpopular given the current climate. But the whole “It’s so precious, I don’t want to talk about it” suggests to me less that it’s truly sacrosanct — unless it was a really pure and spiritual gun range experience — and more that neither of them prepped for this moment. Which seems IMPOSSIBLE given how long these two have been together, but who knows. People are confusing.