done something really, really bad to get this gig, throwing bones to twenty-five Canadian journalists – “I’m sorry, did you just say RAGINA?” – ten minutes each with Mr. Once Was Famous, knowing we’ll all write the same article about the first big star to hit town. American publicists in Canada carry with them the anger of a very recent breakup, of a really terrible morning, a missed-the-alarm, stepped-in-dog-shit, got-mugged, bled-all-over-myself morning that just ended five minutes ago. Your presence is only going to agitate that huge gaping wound that is her life. You’re going to bother her with your pesky requests and refusal to wrap it up after she’s given you the very clear finger-winding-it’s-over signal. You’re going to rub the star the wrong way with some mindless question about art or truth or, more likely, dating status, and then she’ll have to spend the whole morning cleaning up your mess, calming him down, fulfilling requests for tranks or personal trainers or organic fruit, until she can finally stuff him onto an airplane and slam the door – her own personal, unique creative gifts overlooked one more long, unjust day.
The door opens and a beaming young reporter backs out, clutching her tape recorder to her chest. She’s got the sticky coating of a chocolate-dipped ice-cream cone; this interaction has bettered her.
Ethan Hawke appears. He’s just a little taller than the door handle. First thought upon seeing a celebrity in the flesh: if he’s male, he looks like a wizened, less attractive, shorter version of the character he plays on screen, like the guy at Substop who serves you your daily six-inch Turkey Lurky about whom everyone back at the office goes: “He looks like Ethan Hawke, am I right?” If it’s a woman, you think, I can’t even find her under the Impressionist brush strokes of foundation. And also the shorter thing.
Wiping the (carefully placed) sleep from his eyes, tugging his (perfectly wrinkled) thrift-store old-man shirt (Paul Smith, U.S.$1,675) that rises above his prominent belly (what, no personal trainer? – you’re right. He can’t win), Ethan Hawke gives a little wave to the smitten journalist who’s hovering in the hallway, unable to move. An intake of breath from
Halifax Bugle
.
Publicist #1, Curly, scampers over to the star on her tiny feet and is all: “What can I get you what do you need how did it go?”
I’ve got Ethan Hawke’s number. He’s a down-with-the-people celeb. He just wants a Diet Coke, no problem, man, whenever you can get to it. He gets the scene. He knows the deal. He’s one of
those
.
“Who’s next?” he smiles, and
Bugle
swoons a little, holding the wall to keep steady.
“She is,” says the publicist, pointing at me with her chin.
Then Hawke does it, he turns and full stops at my eyes, lets loose a little, crinkly just-for-me smile. It works, Iconfess. I am not immune, and most of them have it, these actor types (except – and this is weird – Harrison Ford). That’s the only difference between them and us. When I smile, I just smile. Two lips, a touch of tooth, a gum now and then on a really glorious day. It’s a friendly but neutral act. With them, a smile is a declaration, a flag planted in your heart. Which is pretty nice, and it’s been a while since someone bothered to send the troops my way, so I blush, remembering, out of nowhere, Theo McArdle’s smile, and how young he looked laughing.
Hawke runs his hand through his bed-head, then offers a greasy handshake. We’re ushered in, the publicist flutters, making an exaggerated NASA-worthy gesture with her fingers – ten minutes countdown! – then backs out of the room, turning the doorknob with nursery-room caution so as not to disturb the artist.
“Nice to meet you,” says Ethan Hawke. “Can I get you anything?”
This question, this gesture to the stuffed food cart – fruit, bottled water, bowl of chocolate bars – gets me, I have to admit.
The door opens and a beaming young reporter backs out, clutching her tape recorder to her chest. She’s got the sticky coating of a chocolate-dipped ice-cream cone; this interaction has bettered her.
Ethan Hawke appears. He’s just a little taller than the door handle. First thought upon seeing a celebrity in the flesh: if he’s male, he looks like a wizened, less attractive, shorter version of the character he plays on screen, like the guy at Substop who serves you your daily six-inch Turkey Lurky about whom everyone back at the office goes: “He looks like Ethan Hawke, am I right?” If it’s a woman, you think, I can’t even find her under the Impressionist brush strokes of foundation. And also the shorter thing.
Wiping the (carefully placed) sleep from his eyes, tugging his (perfectly wrinkled) thrift-store old-man shirt (Paul Smith, U.S.$1,675) that rises above his prominent belly (what, no personal trainer? – you’re right. He can’t win), Ethan Hawke gives a little wave to the smitten journalist who’s hovering in the hallway, unable to move. An intake of breath from
Halifax Bugle
.
Publicist #1, Curly, scampers over to the star on her tiny feet and is all: “What can I get you what do you need how did it go?”
I’ve got Ethan Hawke’s number. He’s a down-with-the-people celeb. He just wants a Diet Coke, no problem, man, whenever you can get to it. He gets the scene. He knows the deal. He’s one of
those
.
“Who’s next?” he smiles, and
Bugle
swoons a little, holding the wall to keep steady.
“She is,” says the publicist, pointing at me with her chin.
Then Hawke does it, he turns and full stops at my eyes, lets loose a little, crinkly just-for-me smile. It works, Iconfess. I am not immune, and most of them have it, these actor types (except – and this is weird – Harrison Ford). That’s the only difference between them and us. When I smile, I just smile. Two lips, a touch of tooth, a gum now and then on a really glorious day. It’s a friendly but neutral act. With them, a smile is a declaration, a flag planted in your heart. Which is pretty nice, and it’s been a while since someone bothered to send the troops my way, so I blush, remembering, out of nowhere, Theo McArdle’s smile, and how young he looked laughing.
Hawke runs his hand through his bed-head, then offers a greasy handshake. We’re ushered in, the publicist flutters, making an exaggerated NASA-worthy gesture with her fingers – ten minutes countdown! – then backs out of the room, turning the doorknob with nursery-room caution so as not to disturb the artist.
“Nice to meet you,” says Ethan Hawke. “Can I get you anything?”
This question, this gesture to the stuffed food cart – fruit, bottled water, bowl of chocolate bars – gets me, I have to admit.
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