precise nature of his offense is difficult to define: I have not been harmed; he hasn’t even threatened me. Not in so many words.
Chloe
They gave me the part. I knew they would. I’m not religious; I don’t think things are meant to be or not meant to be. But lately it feels like things are coming together in a way I’m not completely in control of.
It’s not that I believe in shit like that, because I don’t.
So I know it sounds crazy. But I knew the part was mine. I still went and read the hell out of a couple of scenes and did my best to make a good impression; I didn’t go wandering in after a couple of martinis and leave myself in fate’s hands. But I knew. I couldn’t imagine anyone else playing Lois’s detective. If this movie had to get made, I had to be in it. Obviously.
When the phone rang, just two days after my audition, it was all I could do not to say yes before they made the offer.
What I don’t know is what to do until then. We shoot this summer in British Columbia. I have months to fill. Martinis to resist, bridges not to burn. And while I’m not broke, things aren’t exactly rosy. My last film flopped. Which was too bad; I actually thought it was a pretty decent movie. A little indie neo-noir-type picture, not the kind of thing I usually get asked to do, but I thought some artsy cred would be a good career move. And maybe it would have been if anybody had seen the goddamned film. I played a woman who finds out that her fianc é killed a girl, among other sordid activities, and covered it up pretty successfully—until suddenly someone’s snooping around, putting the pieces together, blah, blah, blah. But it was good and dark, with no cheeseball happy ending. And it was set in the seventies: great hair and costumes and a general willingness on the part of the cast and crew to get high on a regular basis.
But it was badly marketed, no one saw it, and I got paid shit. If I have to hang out in LA till the end of June, I really will be broke.
* * *
I used to like LA—back when I was new on the scene, and everything seemed to be coming together, and I was half convinced that I was one step away from being the Next Big Thing. I had an outrageously pure faith in my looks and my talent. I felt like the world owed me something, and I thought that what I felt mattered. I’d had a couple of very lucky breaks, and based on those I assumed that the world was planning to make good on its debts. I had a good part in Destiny Wars , a space movie with a modest budget that became a surprise summer blockbuster. I wasn’t one of the leads, but I was one of the small group of astronauts who were at the center of the plot, and I was one of the few characters that got to live all the way through the movie, dressed in one of those tight shiny jumpsuits that filmmakers seem to have unanimously decided are what we will be wearing in the Future. I was invited to the MTV Viewer’s Choice Awards; I did the red carpet thing. I was featured in magazines—no covers, but a few full inside pages—got some modeling jobs, more scripts to look at. One magazine even tagged me as the next It Girl. I thought I had made it. A few years of this, I thought, and I could return to New York in triumph: the stage would be waiting for me.
In Destiny Wars 2: Ascension , they killed me off in the first five minutes. I barely made it past the opening credits before a treacherous crew member launched me into space in my sleek silver astronaut nightie, a lethal futuristic space particle bullet through my head.
I wanted to do a romantic comedy, but my destiny, it seemed, was to be an action sidekick. Sub-sidekick, really. Not the ass-kicking, wise-cracking, all-important main sidekick. The expendable sub-sidekick. It turned out that people liked to watch me die. I came across an unauthorized fan site once that had put together a montage of all my deaths.
In the indie flick, not only did I actually get to act, but I was
Chloe
They gave me the part. I knew they would. I’m not religious; I don’t think things are meant to be or not meant to be. But lately it feels like things are coming together in a way I’m not completely in control of.
It’s not that I believe in shit like that, because I don’t.
So I know it sounds crazy. But I knew the part was mine. I still went and read the hell out of a couple of scenes and did my best to make a good impression; I didn’t go wandering in after a couple of martinis and leave myself in fate’s hands. But I knew. I couldn’t imagine anyone else playing Lois’s detective. If this movie had to get made, I had to be in it. Obviously.
When the phone rang, just two days after my audition, it was all I could do not to say yes before they made the offer.
What I don’t know is what to do until then. We shoot this summer in British Columbia. I have months to fill. Martinis to resist, bridges not to burn. And while I’m not broke, things aren’t exactly rosy. My last film flopped. Which was too bad; I actually thought it was a pretty decent movie. A little indie neo-noir-type picture, not the kind of thing I usually get asked to do, but I thought some artsy cred would be a good career move. And maybe it would have been if anybody had seen the goddamned film. I played a woman who finds out that her fianc é killed a girl, among other sordid activities, and covered it up pretty successfully—until suddenly someone’s snooping around, putting the pieces together, blah, blah, blah. But it was good and dark, with no cheeseball happy ending. And it was set in the seventies: great hair and costumes and a general willingness on the part of the cast and crew to get high on a regular basis.
But it was badly marketed, no one saw it, and I got paid shit. If I have to hang out in LA till the end of June, I really will be broke.
* * *
I used to like LA—back when I was new on the scene, and everything seemed to be coming together, and I was half convinced that I was one step away from being the Next Big Thing. I had an outrageously pure faith in my looks and my talent. I felt like the world owed me something, and I thought that what I felt mattered. I’d had a couple of very lucky breaks, and based on those I assumed that the world was planning to make good on its debts. I had a good part in Destiny Wars , a space movie with a modest budget that became a surprise summer blockbuster. I wasn’t one of the leads, but I was one of the small group of astronauts who were at the center of the plot, and I was one of the few characters that got to live all the way through the movie, dressed in one of those tight shiny jumpsuits that filmmakers seem to have unanimously decided are what we will be wearing in the Future. I was invited to the MTV Viewer’s Choice Awards; I did the red carpet thing. I was featured in magazines—no covers, but a few full inside pages—got some modeling jobs, more scripts to look at. One magazine even tagged me as the next It Girl. I thought I had made it. A few years of this, I thought, and I could return to New York in triumph: the stage would be waiting for me.
In Destiny Wars 2: Ascension , they killed me off in the first five minutes. I barely made it past the opening credits before a treacherous crew member launched me into space in my sleek silver astronaut nightie, a lethal futuristic space particle bullet through my head.
I wanted to do a romantic comedy, but my destiny, it seemed, was to be an action sidekick. Sub-sidekick, really. Not the ass-kicking, wise-cracking, all-important main sidekick. The expendable sub-sidekick. It turned out that people liked to watch me die. I came across an unauthorized fan site once that had put together a montage of all my deaths.
In the indie flick, not only did I actually get to act, but I was
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