Jesse Eisenberg Swears He’s Less Famous Than You’d Think

Within two minutes of meeting Jesse Eisenberg on the streets of Manhattan, we’re talking about survival at Auschwitz. Within five minutes, we’re talking about Israel. In 10, Woody Allen. This is not uncommon when two New York Jews try to get to know each other.

It’s a gorgeous afternoon, two days before the opening of A Real Pain, Eisenberg’s second feature film as a writer and director. A considerable degree of awards buzz has accrued for the picture itself, Eisenberg’s direction, his screenplay, and Kieran Culkin’s performance as a drifting wounded soul taking a so-called Holocaust tour of Poland. Eisenberg is also extraordinary in the less showy role of Culkin’s neurotic cousin, trying to keep the tour on track. The film concludes with the two men visiting their grandmother’s plain-looking home in Poland, the actual home where Eisenberg’s great-aunt lived before the Holocaust disrupted his family history.

During our walk, with Eisenberg wearing the exact beat-up prop Indiana University hat from his movie, we bump into a friend (“her kid and my kid take ballet together”) and a beaming Danny Aiello–esque man outside Upside Pizza, demanding we try a complimentary slice. “This is almost like fake New York right now,” the author of several produced plays and a volume of short stories snickers to me between bites.

“Should we head to the Center for Jewish History?” Eisenberg wonders as we stroll. “Or is that becoming too niche?” I remind him that his movie is about two Jews on a Holocaust tour, to which he responds, “Yes, and I’d like more than four people to see it!” But we end up going there anyway, checking out an exhibit called “The Dreyfus Affair in Postcards: Going Viral at the End of the 19th Century.” Soon some muckety-mucks from the museum appear and give us a lengthy private tour of a forthcoming recreation of the Anne Frank Annex, then a detailed look backstage at the restoration processes within the center’s enormous archive of papers and materials.

Eisenberg, who studied anthropology in college and whose recent film is all about prewar Jewish history, is losing his mind. But that’s nothing compared to when the center’s CEO, Rio Daniel, makes an offhand comment that the gentleman we met at the front desk is part of the Zabar family, legendary among New Yorkers for their Temple-like delicatessen on the Upper West Side.

Turning bright red while jumping up and down inside a freight elevator (more animated than I’ve ever seen him, including when he fought Superman as Lex Luthor) Eisenberg starts shouting: “Lori Zabar’s kid?! This is part of my family lore! My father went on a date with her. He talked about her all the time. I always complained I could have been swimming in black-and-white cookies! My mother was a birthday party clown—we got nothing! I have to call my dad.”

Soon I’m in a room visited by several people including legendary scholar and curator Eddy Portnoy and the ebullient Henry Zabar Mariscal, as Jesse gets his father, Barry, on speaker to regale us with memories from high school. (Turns out he did not date Henry’s mother, but Barry had a serious crush.) Henry later gives us copies of his mother’s book, Zabar’s: A Family Story, With Recipes, including one for Barry. Jesse jokes that the haroseth-heavy memoir “is like Hustler for my dad. He’d have to hide it behind a copy of Hustler to read it around my mother.” After more laughs, the museum workers exeunt, leaving Eisenberg and I to switch gears from making zings to talking about the horrors of World War II. The following has been edited for length and clarity.

Vanity Fair: Had you visited concentration camps before you filmed this movie?

Jesse Eisenberg: I went to Majdanek, where we filmed, with my wife, and Dachau, but it was just us, not a tour. And Auschwitz. I don’t like vacations, but I love learning. She and I both have degrees in anthropology, so we vacation where we can learn—our last vacation was Timosora, Romania, the site of the Romanian revolution. We’ve been to the Rwandan Genocide Museum, we went to the killing fields in Cambodia.

That’s a little depressing, no?

I’m a depressive, so I walk through the world feeling miserable about things. When I’m in the presence of that which confirms my world view, it makes me feel grounded. Not that I want to see suffering, but being in those places … it makes me feel like I’m in the place where I should be. I find any empathic growth makes me feel alive.

You’d never say, “Gee, let’s go to the Bahamas and sit on the beach.”

I really am a wreck the few times I’ve had to do it. I sit in the room and write and my wife takes my kid to the water. My wife is a really fun person, but I can’t do it. That’s my nature.

In a few days, you are getting your Polish citizenship. I guess you had a good experience shooting there?

There was a strangeness, knowing that my family lived in this place far longer than America, but we don’t talk about it. When the war broke out and people escaped, it wasn’t like the last episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, having a bittersweet moment before he leaves the house. People were taken out of the house and shot.

A lot of older people told me I shouldn’t go there. “It’s all antisemites.” I found the exact opposite. I worked with a crew of 150 people, all serving my family’s story. The young academics at Majdanek are dedicating themselves to preserving Jewish history. The one person in my life who made fun of my Jewfro was a kid in my Hebrew school.

Everybody has mishegoss. What makes Jewish mishegoss different from, say, Irish mishegoss?

We are a people that, historically, have never had a nationality. Being moved around and kicked out of places, I think, leads to a certain kind of assimilation which allows us to be on the inside and the outside. When I think about being a person who writes stories, I think of being in a place, but also observational.

Originally you were thinking of playing Benji, then realized it would be too tough to do that and direct. Did you consider not playing David?

Yes. I wanted to hire John Magaro—he’s great—but financing is tough, and I had just been on a relatively successful TV show [Fleischman is in Trouble]. So I ended up doing it.

I have read that you try never to watch yourself on film.

Yes, I’ve never seen an episode of Fleischman or anything.

This becomes an issue when you are directing yourself.

I wore a hat and glasses, because I know I am hiding 70% of my face.

Editing the movie, then, must have been tough.

I can’t look at the scenes where I am not wearing the hat and glasses. There was an issue with the financing company—I was supposed to not wear the hat in every scene, because it covers my face, so every day we had an argument.

Because the hat…

It obscures the things I’m uncomfortable with, vanity-wise.

You are a handsome boy!

Thanks a lot, but when you have big, curly hair, 90% of the time my hair looks bad.

But now that you’ve broken the seal, watching A Real Pain so many times, maybe you could watch your earlier stuff?

Maybe, maybe. The truth is when you are acting in something, it’s up to 10,000 other people. Every actor later wonders “why did they use this take?” So after a while I stopped watching, and it made me so much more comfortable acting. I wasn’t thinking that I would have to contend with this later.

Your character in the film mentions his OCD, and you’ve talked about it in the past—

You’ll see how right now I’m trying to touch every part of my elbow with my fingers, because I accidentally touched the inside of my elbow with this finger, so I am trying to account for all sides. I just do this unconsciously all day, or maybe not so unconsciously, I guess. The medicine is supposed to work. I don’t freak out about it; it’s the nature of my life. I guess I’m trying to get some control.

Yet you can still go to Poland and direct a feature film.

Creatively, I have so much confidence. I don’t understand why. Everything I’ve written comes from deep wells of anxiety. But making a movie requires different skills: managerial skills and authority.

I’m in an industry that is so terrifying. You can be in something, but then the next year you have no job. Making a movie is my extension of the panic that one day things won’t work out, so it’s better to take control. But I have no desire to be in power. My two favorite directors I’ve ever worked with are two of the most nervous people I’ve ever known, Richard Ayoade and Greg Mottola.

You’ve done so many smaller movies, then giant ones like the Superman movies. Does it even seem like the same vocation?

An actor’s job doesn’t change, truly. I can’t think of another job on set that doesn’t change. We don’t require equipment, and since I never watch the movies, the experience is exactly the same. I just finished the third Now You See Me two days ago, a big Hollywood production, and maybe that takes a little longer and there are more people running around—but when the camera is on, I’m just doing a sense memory of feeling jealous of young people, because my character is competitive of a young magician. You are doing the same thing.

I love the near wall-to-wall use of Chopin in A Real Pain.

It was the music I was listening to when I was writing, so I put the specific songs in the script. Then, on set, I played them for the actors and the cinematographer—if he was doing a dolly shot, I gave him my phone, said “this is what we’ll be hearing, so don’t go too fast.” Almost to a tee. Also, it’s in the public domain. In my first movie I was trying to get the rights to some dumb club song and it was $15,000.

Chopin is the music I listen to mostly at home, especially now because I connect it to this movie, it warms my heart. We also listen to the soundtrack to Robot Dreams, my kid and I love that soundtrack, and also the Earth, Wind and Fire that’s used. My kid and I do a walk to “September” the way the Robot and Dog do in that movie. We also like musical theater, and my favorite band is Ween.

Wait, Ween?

They are the greatest band that ever lived. I’m a little more counter-cultural than my clothes.

You are pretty present in New York. I’ve personally seen you at the library a few times; I also have a friend who sees you a lot at the Y. Most people who star in movies go to more exclusive gyms.

I guess I could. But we like community. And I’m less famous than you think I am. My life is normal. I occasionally see people taking pictures of me, or even coming up to me, but the day I start thinking of myself as someone who needs to hide, that’s the day I lose. I love this city and all it offers. My wife is a public school teacher.

You’ll forever be associated with Mark Zuckerberg because of The Social Network. Do your ears perk up every time he’s in the news?

It’s like, “Och, I hope he didn’t do something bad.”

It’s funny. We walked through this museum today and had all these amazing conversations with people—my dad almost dated Henry’s mom—and I was thinking it’s been so beautiful and interesting, there have been so many coincidences in the last two hours. Then I go straight to catastrophe. This lovely communal thing we have is offset by whenever there’s a Bernie Madoff in the news, my first thought is “please don’t be Jewish.”

If Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk does something awful, it’s different than when Mark Zuckerberg does it.

Exactly. Or Jeffrey Epstein. Or Harvey Weinstein, who was a psychopath. I don’t know anybody like that. It just doesn’t ring true to anything I know in my life experience. But you feel painted with the same brush.

It’s more personal with you and Zuckerberg, because, like Peter O’Toole and Lawrence of Arabia, you’ll always be connected.

Yeah, but Lawrence of Arabia isn’t on Bloomberg every morning above the fold!

A Real Pain is an awards contender. You were nominated for an Academy Award for The Social Network, and saw the campaign aspect of awards.

There’s a real thing behind it, a campaign. I was not fully aware. I was like “why are we in Santa Barbara?” Then it became a whole rivalry thing between Harvey Weinstein, who had The King’s Speech, versus Scott Rudin, who had Social Network.

Did you enjoy that whole experience?

Well, I don’t like leaving my house, so any outdoor activity is miserable, but being associated with that—the cool kids on the block. It was a cool movie, so it was great.

There’s more of this coming with A Real Pain.

I’m going to Santa Barbara next week. But I’m not focused too much on awards. I’m shooting my next movie in March, and writing a lot of music for it, because it is set in the world of musical theater.

You’ve worked with so many cool people, I just want to throw out some names and you tell me the first nice thing that pops into your head about them.

First: Woody Harrelson.

I was just texting him this morning. A brilliant artist masquerading as an everyman. He comes to set every day with alternative pages that he’s written. An artistic genius. Watch his movie [Lost in London], which is all done in a single take.

Michael Caine.

Michael Caine! I had a conversation with him and I cursed, and I apologized. I said “I’m so sorry, Sir Michael Caine” and he said his age, which was whatever it was at the time, he said “I’m 78, I’ve heard that word before.”

Julianne Moore.

The greatest actress in the world. My favorite.

Kristen Stewart.

She was a movie star at 17 in a way I can’t articulate. We were doing a scene [in Adventureland] in a car. She had one line, and I got out of the car and I was like, I never knew what a movie star was until this moment. Something you can’t teach.

Alexander Skarsgård.

Oh, I love him. I absolutely love him. Here’s another guy who is accidentally gorgeous, and he is such a brilliant actor. In The Hummingbird Project he made himself bald, and gave himself a little bodysuit to add some heft—he is a brilliant actor trapped in the body of someone unbelievably gorgeous.

Kelly Reichardt.

The funniest person I have ever met who refuses to put a joke into her movie.

Zack Snyder.

He is in love with what he does in a way that is so infectious. The first time I met him he was at a whiteboard designing some new kind of weapon. He’s there at five in the morning, he’s jumping around in sweatpants. He has a little bit of a jock quality, but he’s the jock who would have been nice and in the goth club and the drama club.

Woody Allen.

I worked with him twice, but I know more about him from watching his movies so frequently and reading every book. Working with him, ironically, is less intimate.

Anne Hathaway.

We were on a television series together as siblings, Get Real, before the [Rio] movies. She’s lovely and a quadruple threat. She can do everything in this industry. Recording the animated movies, we do them separately, and honestly, it requires you to overact. Every instinct says “what are you doing? It’s too much,” but that’s what’s required of you.

Holly Hunter.

Such intensity and such power.

Danny McBride.

The single greatest improviser I’ve ever met in my life.

You know he’s Jewish?

McBride?

His mother.

That does explain a lot.

Your producer, Emma Stone.

I knew she was brilliant the first time I met her. I was already cast [in Zombieland], and we were auditioning others for the role. Everyone else came in and tried to ingratiate themselves to the cast. She just came in and made fun of me for 20 minutes in the scene. I couldn’t keep up. I was five years older, and, you know, I’m a funny person, but I could not keep up with this young 20-year-old. She is truly a comic genius and a brilliant actress and a great producer. We’re on the phones with the studio, and she’s like, “This needs to be in the trailer, this needs to be that—”

She’s an active producer, not just lending her name.

No, she’s at the monitor giving me notes. But I’m getting her early in her producing career. Will she stay this way? God, we all hope so.

You are wisely not on social media, so you may be unaware of an interview you gave with a British magazine at the release of Zombieland that goes viral again every few years. You were asked about your life in New York, and you said sometimes people say mean things to you on the street. The journalist said, “Like what?” and you said, “I get called Napoleon Dynamite a lot,” and—

Oh, Abraham!

You remember Abraham!

Of course.

You regularly biked past him outside his school. He would shout out, “Napoleon Dynamite” and you said to him, “Please, Abraham, I’m not that man.” And that’s how the story ended. Now, there are many questions. First, how did you know his name was Abraham?

I met him! I said, “Hi, how are you?” And then he made fun of me.

When you said to him, “Please, Abraham, I’m not that man,” what did he say back?

He couldn’t care less. He’s a good comic. Don’t let the facts get in the way of a punch line. He’s doing the right thing.

When was the last time you saw Abraham?

I’m sure he—well, I hope he graduated. It was 15 years ago. He was a sweet kid, very tall.

You know, in A Real Pain, you name your kid Abraham.

Oh my God.

That’s not why he has that name. Originally in the script, you see how my wife is Indian American, and that she converted and, in a way that converts sometimes overcompensate, their son has an extremely Jewish name. But this does now have the added effect of revenge.