Chapter 8
The next morning is our last day of press in the US.
The review embargo breaks that morning, and we’re one hundred percent fresh on Rotten Tomatoes until some guy from Slate says that Matthew’s “hammy, mouth-breathing incarnation of Warhol distracts from what might have otherwise been a pleasant little love story.” Still, the reviews are overwhelmingly positive.
The New York Times says, “Is it Oscar bait? Sure, but this reviewer is hooked.” Variety calls it, “A lovely, heartrending movie featuring two young actors whose chemistry leaps off the screen.” All day long between interviews, Juniper and I are quoting reviews back and forth to each other.
I can’t compare it to any other feeling I’ve known—the world likes our movie, and the love and work we poured into it feel justified.
A long time ago, when I lived in the same body but was a different person, my high school yearbook called me “Most Likely to Make It in Hollywood,” and now I feel like I have made it, like my life is changing in ways I cannot quite understand.
Bob calls me during an interview and I call him back between set-ups. “Should’ve waited for these goddamned reviews before we signed your Gods of Artessa deal,” he says.
“Andromeda,” Zoe interrupts.
“Right, whatever. These reviews, kid. You’re a fucking star. You’re going to get me invited to the fucking Oscars. Do I even have a tux, Zoe?”
“That’s more a question for your wife,” she says.
“I’m just so proud of you, kid. I’m just so fucking thrilled.
Listen, if I can give you one piece of advice: Make sure there are people in your life who aren’t paid to like you.
Me and Zoe, we’re great. But you need people who don’t have a stake in you.
Ideally people who knew you from before.
A lot of people are gonna want a piece of you. ”
“And if you’re not careful, you run out of pieces,” interjects Zoe.
“Thanks, guys,” I say.
“All right, kid,” Bob tells me. “You’re a fucking star. You’re a fucking supernova. I’ll see you at the premiere Wednesday. Can’t fucking wait.”
_____
The last afternoon of press is predictable, if still slightly soul-destroying.
No one’s allowed to ask me about the Twitter thread, and the response to it has started to die down anyway thanks to the New Yorker piece.
Other abuse victims have spoken up to defend me, saying it’s harder to reveal the abuse than one might think, and that there are no villains here except for the dead guy who did all of it.
And so I answer the questions, the same questions I’ve been answering: It’s important for people living with abuse to know that they have no reason to feel ashamed, I say, although I feel ashamed saying it.
Matthew Malone is an absolute legend, a paragon of generosity.
I love Juniper. Juniper and I share a favorite animal: a rhinoceros that escaped from the Prague Zoo.
Working with Juniper is such a dream come true that I can’t wait to do it again on Gods of Andromeda.
Watching Juniper’s process is inspiring because she pours her whole self into the role.
Her commitment and dedication are unmatched.
She is funny, kind, and brilliant. Our favorite thing to do together is watch movies, especially bad movies.
I prepared for the role by reading everything I could about Warhol.
I love Warhol’s work because it is surface-deep, because it is about how a repeated image—whether it’s Jackie Onassis or an electric chair—loses its meaning in the repetition.
Kathryn is dedicated, passionate, and tireless.
I loved the crew on this movie. I am so grateful to them.
They’re the people who really make the picture.
We’re just the face of something much larger.
I think it’s important to acknowledge that victims of abuse have nothing to be ashamed of.
Matthew is such a wonderful mentor. He’s thoughtful, generous, and openhearted. I love Juniper.
All of this is true, but saying it again and again, it begins to feel like a lie. It begins to feel like a betrayal.
_____
At last, we’re done. Ellen and Katie take us to the hotel bar for celebratory drinks, and Kathryn is there, too.
Kathryn kisses me on both cheeks and says, “Oh my God, Kai, thank you for suffering through so much press. But I can tell you, the only thing worse than a lot of press is none at all, and so at least we have champagne problems. Speaking of which, do you drink champagne?” I nod.
“Perfect, we’ve got two bottles coming.”
Before the champagne arrives, Ellen asks me to go outside with her.
She lights a cigarette. There isn’t a breath of wind in Manhattan, and even though the skyscrapers around us are blocking the sun, it’s warm.
It smells, as New York always does to me, vaguely of urine.
“I’m really proud of this campaign,” she says.
“Me too,” I say. “I didn’t even fuck up too badly.”
“You’ve done great, Kai. You’re a natural. Listen.” She starts to say something, then stops, reconsidering. “You remember a long time ago, I said I work for the studio not for you?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, I’m about to not work for the studio.”
“What happened?”
“I’m done. That’s all.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of a lot of things. The whole apparatus is obscene. The machine consumes people. There’s no humanity left in it, if there ever was. I gotta get out of it. Go private, maybe. Work with a few clients. Spend more time at home.”
“Have you told them you’re quitting?”
“Not yet. Not till after the premiere. Gotta get you to the finish line.” She takes a puff of her cigarette, then exhales.
“You know the fucked-up thing? I know it’s not that big of a deal, what Todd did to you and Juniper.
But the fucked-up thing is that he had to do it.
It was the right thing to do for the movie.
I told you when all this started that nobody wants to watch a movie with a five-word title about a dead artist. And now it’s tracking toward a twenty-two-million-dollar opening weekend.
It’s gonna be a hit, and that’s all thanks to the machine.
Todd saw a way to feed the machine, and he fed it.
I’m tired of being ruthless. I need a little… ruth.”
_____
When we get back to the bar, everyone toasts the movie and then splits off into their own conversations. I’m talking with Ellen when Todd shows up. Ellen gulps down her glass of champagne, and then she says, “I’ve got one for you, Todd.”
“A joke?”
“Yeah,” she says. “About the farmer and the pig. You know the one?”
“Don’t think so,” Todd says. I can hear some anger in Ellen’s voice.
“A woman from the city goes and visits her brother, who is a farmer, and she sees a pig with three legs walking by. So she asks her brother, ‘What’s the deal with that pig?’ ‘Oh,’ says the farmer, ‘that’s Bessie.
Bessie’s incredible. Once, the barn was on fire and Bessie escaped and banged on the front door with her snout to alert us. She’s brilliant.’
“ ‘Okay,’ says the woman from the city, ‘but what about the three legs?’
“ ‘Another time,’ says the farmer, ‘Bessie went and corralled all the sheep like she was some kind of sheepdog. She’s amazing. Ain’t no pig on this farm quite like Bessie.’
“ ‘But why does she only have three legs?’ the sister asks again.
“ ‘Oh,’ says the farmer. ‘Well, a pig like that you don’t eat all at once.’ ”
Todd smiles wanly, then laughs a little. “A pig like that you don’t eat all at once,” he says. “I’ll have to remember that one.”