Twilight is a slippery thing. It flits by, golden and hazy, brushing against your shoulder like a breeze before it disappears behind the weight of night. Actor Iris Apatow knows that this fleeting moment isn’t just a time of day, it’s the space she seems to live in: the end of one thing and the uncertain beginning of another.

Somewhere between a West Coast dusk and a New York morning-after, Apatow lingers in the smoky blur of what’s next. At 22, Apatow is standing in her own Fleeting Twilight—she’s letting go of the bubble of girlhood and walking into something messier; less certain; more real.

“I’m still in a discovery phase,” Apatow says, in reference to her work, but seemingly reflecting on a larger question of self. “I wish I could say I was focusing on one genre, but I just want to try everything.” But the actor is not wandering—she’s reaching. Her recent roles veer between satire and severity—like her performance as Krystal Kris in the 2022 Netflix film The Bubble, or as Arya Hopkins in the Netflix series Love. There are, too, her very early roles in laugh-out-loud absurdities, Knocked Up and This Is 40. Apatow also lights up at the idea of terror: “I’m the biggest horror movie fan ever, so I think that would be my dream to be in an amazing horror movie.” While horror may be her dream genre, it’s the raw, emotional extremes that draw her in most deeply— she found herself knotted in the obsession and literary melancholy of Young Werther, a feverish reimagining of the Goethe classic.

Young Werther, José Lourenço’s 2024 rom-com in which Apatow appeared as Sissy alongside Alison Pill and Patrick Adams, is a classic tale of romantic idealism and slow-burning collapse. Apatow was instantly enamored by its unapologetic hunger. “I love Sissy because I really connect with the love and despair she has,” she explains of her character. “It’s about this guy who’s obsessed with a woman who’s about to get married, and my character is a 16-year-old girl who’s on the other end of him. She’s dressing up for him and has that young love and obsession that I just felt so connected with because everyone goes through that.” Even though she played the role at 20, Apatow believes that some things stay close to the surface: the ache of unreturned attention, the romance of being young, dramatic, and full of want.

Similarly, Unstable, a comedy series revolving around a chaotic workplace, turned out to be an unexpected masterclass in comedy for Apatow. “It was some of the most fun I’ve ever had on a set,” she says. There’s an episode in Season Two where Apatow’s character, Georgia (an intern,) secretly writes death threats to the CEO character—an absurd little gem that quickly became her favorite. “You want to make sure you’re being funny all day, which is incredibly difficult to do. It feels very gratifying to do a good job at making someone laugh because you’re working with people like Rob Lowe and Fred Armisen, who are the funniest and such seasoned comedic actors,” she says. That ability to stretch between tones—from despair to comedy—is only part of a larger story.

Growing up under the Hollywood sun—both literally and figuratively—storytelling was never foreign to Apatow. She saw behind the curtain early: how stories are crafted, how people are edited into something more palatable. But as the youngest daughter of a legendary filmmaker (Judd Apatow) and an acclaimed actress (Leslie Mann), moves into more independent, emotionally layered roles, she’s reclaiming the narrative for herself. In a past FLAUNT piece, Apatow spoke about wanting to nurture her inner child actor. Now, three years later, she’s here to protect her. “I’ve seen a lot and been through even more,” she says. “I think my goal now is to protect that child I once spoke of from the things that could hurt her in this industry. You just become smarter—you pick up bits of knowledge that make you stronger.”

That sense of watchfulness, of guarding something innocent while walking through the more jaded corridors of fame, feels like another twilight between early wonder and earned wisdom. And storytelling—especially personal, intimate storytelling—keeps pulling Apatow into stranger, more sincere territory. She’s no longer the comic relief or the best friend. She’s the protagonist now, even if she’s still figuring out what that means. The kind of moment you don’t even realize you’re living until it’s behind you.

Now based in New York, Apatow has left behind the endless summer of Los Angeles. Raised there from “0 to 21,” she’s both nostalgic and clear-eyed about the city’s contradictions. “After a period of time, you need to escape the sunniness and go somewhere where there are seasons,” she says. “LA—and I’m sure a lot of people can relate—is a very isolating city. My experience in the last few years was a little lonelier. So yes, there was a certain melancholy to my time in LA, but moving away gave me a real growing-up moment. I look back on it now as a place I could come back to… but I’m not sure I will.” 

Still, LA lives in her. When asked to describe it in one surreal, cinematic image, Apatow doesn’t hesitate. “The thing that just came to my head was the part in the ‘California Gurls’ music video on the beach with the whipped cream bra. That’s it. That’s the city. I stand by it. That is what I see in my head when I want to describe LA.” And she should. It’s ridiculous, iconic, and glittery on the edge of absurd.

Just like cities leave an imprint, so too does the way we dress—fashion, for Apatow, has always mirrored her inner evolution. A shape-shifter’s tool. A mood board for who she is and who she’s trying to be. “I’ve always been obsessed with fashion,” she says. “I did an after-school fashion class with my sixth-grade teacher, Tracey Porter, and my best friend and I were obsessed with this documentary about Diana Vreeland. We loved watching all the Met Gala footage when we were little.”

Her personal style, as she puts it, has always aimed towards one aesthetic: “I want to look like Miss Honey from Matilda.” Think: sun dresses, long skirts, fitted knits, soft sweaters. Something gentle, a little retro, distinctly romantic. “I’m not the most risky when it comes to fashion, but I will wear a crazy coat,” Apatow laughs. “I used to wear blue eyeshadow every day and really colorful clothes. But over time, it just kind of got sifted out of my closet. My sister’s like, ‘Where did all your fun dresses go?’ I think I did too many organizing methods, and they all got taken out of my closet.” There’s time. Risk can wait. Her evolution isn’t just about clothes. It’s also tied to a larger shift—in identity, in independence, in figuring things out.

She points to her time filming Young Werther as a turning point. “I had just dropped out of college—I didn’t drop out; I’m just still on a break,” she jokes. “When I left, I was like, ‘Oh, I’m not coming back here. And I’m like, this is my first job as a grown-up,’” she says. “Moving out of LA was a big moment for that. Everything from when you’re 21 to 23 is a twilight moment where you’re just panicking, everything’s changing, and I’m getting older.”

So how does Apatow keep youth alive in the face of all this growing up? How does she not get lost in the seriousness of becoming? “I don’t know,” she laughs. “Someone should tell me. I literally just watch The Handmaid’s Tale on repeat, and that’s not very playful, is it?” Then she brightens. “That’s like the most relaxing, joyous time I have to myself, but sometimes I’ll go to a little spa place where they have a sauna. That’s where I get playful.”

Apatow’s playful, yes. But even play has its shadows. Her next project, Ballerina Overdrive, (in which she is set to star alongside Uma Thurman, Lana Condor, and Maddie Ziegler), remains largely under wraps, but the title alone suggests movement, duality, pressure. Another liminal zone, another contradiction to dance inside. Fleeting Twilight, after all, isn’t about the light. It’s about the moment just before it disappears. Apatow, ever aware of the transition, isn’t trying to capture the magic so much as she’s trying to live inside of it while it lasts.

That’s the thing about twilight: it’s not a destination—it’s a mood. A flicker. Apatow isn’t trying to escape it—she’s expanding it. And with that, twilight falls a little slower this time and a little more golden. Just long enough to see Apatow clearly, before the next chapter begins.

Photographed by Emily Soto at Print and Contact

Styled by Caro Jin Park 

Written by Lily Brown

Hair: Seiji Yamada at Walter Schupfer Management

Makeup: Ryann Carter at Opus Beauty

Flaunt Film: Mynxii White