to tell her side of the story. And she was, without hesitation, falling in love with this bear-man. He would not let her down. “Okay,” she said.
Two rounds later, Eric’s character extinguished, beaten so badly that Annie would not have been surprised to find him permanently removed from the game, she smiled. “I guess I’m just going to have to miss out on that scoop,” Eric said. He shrugged and then smiled, the question erased from his list, and Annie was touched by the gesture, the easy way the day was unfolding.
“It was a difficult movie,” Annie said, taking care not to look at Eric, unsure of exactly why she felt the need to unburden herself. “It was an intensely difficult part to play and I knew it would be going into it, but I don’t think I realized just how draining it would be to inhabit that character day after day.”
“What do you think of the reviews so far?” he asked, the tape recorder still in his shirt pocket.
“I’m not the best person to judge,” she said. “I know that Freeman has a unique vision and that perhaps it’s difficult for other people to appreciate it.”
“Did you enjoy the movie?”
“That is not a word I would ever use to describe the experience of watching one of my own movies.”
“Okay,” Eric said. They stared at each other in silence. A promo for the game unraveled on the screen, some giant, white-haired devil laughing and then beckoning the viewer to join the action.
“I took off my top because I didn’t know if I could.”
“Mmm,” Eric said, nodding.
“I’d never done a nude scene and I wasn’t sure that I would be able to do it. So I did it in real life and then I realized I could do it in the movie. I just, you know, forgot that other people could see me.”
“That’s understandable. It must be difficult to shift back and forth between reality and fiction, especially with such an intense role. We can come back to that or leave it alone. For now, how about some Skee-Ball?”
Annie nodded. “Annie,” she told herself, “shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
W hen the pictures hit the Internet, fuzzy and low-resolution but without a doubt her, Annie’s parents sent her an e-mail that read: It’s about time you started playing with the idea of celebrity and the female form as viewed object . Her brother did not say or write a single word, seemed to disappear; perhaps that’s what happens when a sibling sees you naked. Her on-and-off boyfriend, currently off, called her and, when she answered the phone, said, “Is this a Fang thing? I mean, is it just inescapable that you’ll do weird shit?”
“Daniel,” she said, “you promised you wouldn’t call.”
“I promised I wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. And this counts. You’re losing your mind.”
Daniel Cartwright had written two novels that felt like movies and then started writing screenplays that felt like TV shows. He wore a cowboy hat all the time now. He’d recently sold a script for a staggering million, something about two guys who build a robot that runs for president. It was called President 2.0 and Annie was not sure, other than the fact that he was unhinged and handsome, why she had ended up with him, and why, after she had left him, she would end up with him again.
“I’m not losing my mind,” she replied. She wondered if it was possible to blow up the Internet.
“It sure looks like it from here,” he said.
“I’m making a movie,” she said, “a strange process that always requires some degree of weirdness.”
“I’m looking at your boobs right now,” he answered, and Annie, unable to think of a response, simply hung up the phone.
Later that day, at a dinner for the principal actors at Freeman’s rented mansion, Annie showed up to find one of her naked photos plastered all over the house. Freeman walked into the hallway to greet her, taking nonchalant bites of a novelty-size candy bar that oozed caramel.
“What’s this about?”
Two rounds later, Eric’s character extinguished, beaten so badly that Annie would not have been surprised to find him permanently removed from the game, she smiled. “I guess I’m just going to have to miss out on that scoop,” Eric said. He shrugged and then smiled, the question erased from his list, and Annie was touched by the gesture, the easy way the day was unfolding.
“It was a difficult movie,” Annie said, taking care not to look at Eric, unsure of exactly why she felt the need to unburden herself. “It was an intensely difficult part to play and I knew it would be going into it, but I don’t think I realized just how draining it would be to inhabit that character day after day.”
“What do you think of the reviews so far?” he asked, the tape recorder still in his shirt pocket.
“I’m not the best person to judge,” she said. “I know that Freeman has a unique vision and that perhaps it’s difficult for other people to appreciate it.”
“Did you enjoy the movie?”
“That is not a word I would ever use to describe the experience of watching one of my own movies.”
“Okay,” Eric said. They stared at each other in silence. A promo for the game unraveled on the screen, some giant, white-haired devil laughing and then beckoning the viewer to join the action.
“I took off my top because I didn’t know if I could.”
“Mmm,” Eric said, nodding.
“I’d never done a nude scene and I wasn’t sure that I would be able to do it. So I did it in real life and then I realized I could do it in the movie. I just, you know, forgot that other people could see me.”
“That’s understandable. It must be difficult to shift back and forth between reality and fiction, especially with such an intense role. We can come back to that or leave it alone. For now, how about some Skee-Ball?”
Annie nodded. “Annie,” she told herself, “shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
W hen the pictures hit the Internet, fuzzy and low-resolution but without a doubt her, Annie’s parents sent her an e-mail that read: It’s about time you started playing with the idea of celebrity and the female form as viewed object . Her brother did not say or write a single word, seemed to disappear; perhaps that’s what happens when a sibling sees you naked. Her on-and-off boyfriend, currently off, called her and, when she answered the phone, said, “Is this a Fang thing? I mean, is it just inescapable that you’ll do weird shit?”
“Daniel,” she said, “you promised you wouldn’t call.”
“I promised I wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. And this counts. You’re losing your mind.”
Daniel Cartwright had written two novels that felt like movies and then started writing screenplays that felt like TV shows. He wore a cowboy hat all the time now. He’d recently sold a script for a staggering million, something about two guys who build a robot that runs for president. It was called President 2.0 and Annie was not sure, other than the fact that he was unhinged and handsome, why she had ended up with him, and why, after she had left him, she would end up with him again.
“I’m not losing my mind,” she replied. She wondered if it was possible to blow up the Internet.
“It sure looks like it from here,” he said.
“I’m making a movie,” she said, “a strange process that always requires some degree of weirdness.”
“I’m looking at your boobs right now,” he answered, and Annie, unable to think of a response, simply hung up the phone.
Later that day, at a dinner for the principal actors at Freeman’s rented mansion, Annie showed up to find one of her naked photos plastered all over the house. Freeman walked into the hallway to greet her, taking nonchalant bites of a novelty-size candy bar that oozed caramel.
“What’s this about?”
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