Some people possess a quality — a highly specific fuel mixture of intelligence and humor — that makes them seem like they've always got a secret they want to share with you, and only you. It's not obvious. That's the whole point of it: It lives on the sly, this quality, around the edges of what they say and do. It sidles up to you and draws you in, it whispers to you that you are important and special, and that's why this person chose you. You share something, the two of you. And what it wants to say to you is: I get it. I see what you see. I'm taking none of this seriously; I'm in on the joke. Knowingness is as good a way to describe this quality as any. It's a coy wink, a subtle signal. It cocks an eyebrow at the world and says, with a smile, "Do you even believe this?" Onscreen, Carrie Fisher committed to the bit, always. She strangled the giant space slug , she grabbed a flamethrower and threw flame , she dutifully best-friended Meg Ryan and mentored Tina Fey and mothered Rob
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