When we arrive at her place, she invites me in to show me the knife that she’d kill me with. It’s sitting on the built-in bookshelf next to her bed. “This is it,” she says. “I practice picking it up quickly.” She perches on the bed and picks it up, twice, quickly.
It is not clear if she is fucking with me. But this is exactly the point. Aubrey Plaza isn’t awkward, not really: She’s operating on a subtle frequency between sincerity and artifice, between humoring an interviewer and trolling him, between pretending not to try and committing completely. Will Ferrell should have handed her that damn statue, and who knows what would have happened next.