Különlegesen aktuálissá teszi számomra ezt a bejegyzést az a tény, hogy kiadják a fanfictionok közül immáron a következő Twilight alapú történetet. Ha minden igaz, eddig az ezeket adták ki:Emancipation Proclamation(Sempre Forever);
University of Edward Masen(Gabriel's Inferno);
Master of the Universe(Fifty Shades történetek);
és most ez, a "The Office".
Ami Beautiful Bastard címen fog megjelenni, és természetesen eredetileg Edward és Bella szerepel benne. A nevek kiadandó könyvben természetesen nem ezek lesznek.
Viszont a férfi-figura egy az egyben, mintha a GQ Rob fotózásából lépett volna elő.
He's Hot, He's Sexy, He's Undead
Two years ago, Robert Pattinson
was a forgotten extra in a 'Harry Potter' movie. Then he got cast as a
blue-balled vampire in 'Twilight,' the year's kazillion-dollar movie
franchise, and every woman in America over 14 wants him. Too bad he's
not sure he wants them
április 2009
A few days after we meet Robert Pattinson for the first time, we will call up his Twilight co-star Kristen Stewart, who will say this about him:
"He can't lie," she says. "It makes things a little scary for him sometimes. But it's my favorite thing about him."
Funny—by then, it would be our favorite thing about him, too. We spend a Tuesday afternoon with Pattinson, in a little bakery-café on Doheny Drive, in West Hollywood, and the whole time, he seems to be telling the truth compulsively, heedlessly, helplessly, as if he'd been shot with a sodium pentothal dart while parking his car.
Pattinson's other problem—he admits this early on—is that he can't abide a conversational lull.
"I just say the first thing that comes into my head," he said, "out of nervousness. During interviews I'm literally shitting my pants. I don't want there to be a silence, because I'll start crying."
It's December; Twilight, in which Pattinson, 22, plays an adorably tortured perma-teenage vampire too principled to drink human blood, has been in theaters for about a month. Long enough for it to gross more than $150 million, long enough for the studio to pull the trigger on the first of three potential sequels by replacing director Catherine Hardwicke with one of the guys responsible for the American Pie franchise, not long enough for Pattinson to grasp what any of these developments mean for him, or the importance of dissembling in the presence of reporters.
He slides into his chair, dressed all in black, with a weeks-old beard, hair crammed under a wool cap, looking like Justin Timberlake researching an off-Broadway turn as Terry Malloy. His clothes smell like he has recently purchased them off the back of someone less fortunate than he. He's just come from a big-time meeting with a director and can't wait to tell us how weird it was. Some guy offering him a part, maybe, in a movie so double top secret he couldn't tell Pattinson what it was about. "He wouldn't say anything," Pattinson says, "and he also wouldn't leave," so Pattinson sat there and talked about himself for three hours and drank enough coffee to make a rhino's heart explode.
"God, I don't remember the last time I ate," Pattinson says.
In a vampire movie, he'd have said this with a suggestive eyebrow-wiggle, and then they'd cut to our pallid corpse tumbling out of a Dumpster. Stupid journalist. Instead, Pattinson goes on, filling dead air. He explains that the place he's staying at in L.A. has a microwave, and that he's never had a microwave before, and that he spends a lot of time looking for new things you can microwave. Those frozen cheeseburgers, from the store. A carrot. Did we mention that he's had about nineteen cups of coffee? He asks the waiter about the soup. It's chicken vegetable. He orders a Coke.
"I took half a Valium and then went into this thing—and all this stuff happened."
Okay—to be fair, that's not all he tells us. He was on the verge of quitting acting, he says. He'd followed up what was, back then, the biggest role of his career—in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, as Cedric Diggory, sort of the haughty blond Iceman to Harry's Maverick—by getting fired from a play in London, where he grew up. He was in Los Angeles, crashing on his agent's couch, looking for an American job.
That's all Twilight was to Pattinson, at first: an American job. He didn't know about the cult, about the fans who'd followed Edward and Bella, his perpetually imperiled mortal lady friend, from the first book—which turned author Stephenie Meyer, a Mormon stay-at-home mom from Arizona, into the biggest publishing-industry phenomenon since Potter's J. K. Rowling—through three increasingly thick-as-a-brick sequels. He didn't know that as soon as the movie adaptation was announced, those Twilight fans—about 98.999 percent female and 100 percent fervent—started burning up Internet message boards with deeply felt opinions about which actors were right (and wrong, wrong, wr0ng!!!!) for the male lead. All he knew was that he couldn't remember how to do an American accent. He was freaking out. Hence the pill.
"It was the first time I've ever taken Valium," he says after a second, perhaps realizing how this sounds. "A quarter. A quarter of a Valium. I tried to do it for another audition, and it just completely backfired—I was passing out." (Don't do drugs, kids.)
He auditioned in Hardwicke's bedroom; Hardwicke videotaped him and Stewart performing one of the movie's big love scenes. By then, Hardwicke had already met with hundreds of potential Edwards. "I'd seen a zillion really cute guys," she says. "But that was the problem. They all looked like the super-cute kid in your high school. The prom king, or the captain of the football team. They didn't look like they were from another world and time."
"He can't lie," she says. "It makes things a little scary for him sometimes. But it's my favorite thing about him."
Funny—by then, it would be our favorite thing about him, too. We spend a Tuesday afternoon with Pattinson, in a little bakery-café on Doheny Drive, in West Hollywood, and the whole time, he seems to be telling the truth compulsively, heedlessly, helplessly, as if he'd been shot with a sodium pentothal dart while parking his car.
Pattinson's other problem—he admits this early on—is that he can't abide a conversational lull.
"I just say the first thing that comes into my head," he said, "out of nervousness. During interviews I'm literally shitting my pants. I don't want there to be a silence, because I'll start crying."
It's December; Twilight, in which Pattinson, 22, plays an adorably tortured perma-teenage vampire too principled to drink human blood, has been in theaters for about a month. Long enough for it to gross more than $150 million, long enough for the studio to pull the trigger on the first of three potential sequels by replacing director Catherine Hardwicke with one of the guys responsible for the American Pie franchise, not long enough for Pattinson to grasp what any of these developments mean for him, or the importance of dissembling in the presence of reporters.
He slides into his chair, dressed all in black, with a weeks-old beard, hair crammed under a wool cap, looking like Justin Timberlake researching an off-Broadway turn as Terry Malloy. His clothes smell like he has recently purchased them off the back of someone less fortunate than he. He's just come from a big-time meeting with a director and can't wait to tell us how weird it was. Some guy offering him a part, maybe, in a movie so double top secret he couldn't tell Pattinson what it was about. "He wouldn't say anything," Pattinson says, "and he also wouldn't leave," so Pattinson sat there and talked about himself for three hours and drank enough coffee to make a rhino's heart explode.
"God, I don't remember the last time I ate," Pattinson says.
In a vampire movie, he'd have said this with a suggestive eyebrow-wiggle, and then they'd cut to our pallid corpse tumbling out of a Dumpster. Stupid journalist. Instead, Pattinson goes on, filling dead air. He explains that the place he's staying at in L.A. has a microwave, and that he's never had a microwave before, and that he spends a lot of time looking for new things you can microwave. Those frozen cheeseburgers, from the store. A carrot. Did we mention that he's had about nineteen cups of coffee? He asks the waiter about the soup. It's chicken vegetable. He orders a Coke.
*****
Here is what Pattinson says about getting the part of Edward the vampire in Twilight: "I took half a Valium and then went into this thing—and all this stuff happened."
Okay—to be fair, that's not all he tells us. He was on the verge of quitting acting, he says. He'd followed up what was, back then, the biggest role of his career—in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, as Cedric Diggory, sort of the haughty blond Iceman to Harry's Maverick—by getting fired from a play in London, where he grew up. He was in Los Angeles, crashing on his agent's couch, looking for an American job.
That's all Twilight was to Pattinson, at first: an American job. He didn't know about the cult, about the fans who'd followed Edward and Bella, his perpetually imperiled mortal lady friend, from the first book—which turned author Stephenie Meyer, a Mormon stay-at-home mom from Arizona, into the biggest publishing-industry phenomenon since Potter's J. K. Rowling—through three increasingly thick-as-a-brick sequels. He didn't know that as soon as the movie adaptation was announced, those Twilight fans—about 98.999 percent female and 100 percent fervent—started burning up Internet message boards with deeply felt opinions about which actors were right (and wrong, wrong, wr0ng!!!!) for the male lead. All he knew was that he couldn't remember how to do an American accent. He was freaking out. Hence the pill.
"It was the first time I've ever taken Valium," he says after a second, perhaps realizing how this sounds. "A quarter. A quarter of a Valium. I tried to do it for another audition, and it just completely backfired—I was passing out." (Don't do drugs, kids.)
He auditioned in Hardwicke's bedroom; Hardwicke videotaped him and Stewart performing one of the movie's big love scenes. By then, Hardwicke had already met with hundreds of potential Edwards. "I'd seen a zillion really cute guys," she says. "But that was the problem. They all looked like the super-cute kid in your high school. The prom king, or the captain of the football team. They didn't look like they were from another world and time."
They did the scene. There was a vibe. Hardwicke waited a day to
decide—"No matter how much I fall in love with the person, I make myself
review the tape, to make sure I wasn't just overwhelmed by something in
the air"—but says Stewart told her, right there in the room, "It has to
be Rob."
"Everybody came in doing something empty and shallow and thoughtless," Stewart says. "I know that's a fucking great thing to say about all the other actors—but Rob understood that it wasn't a frivolous role."
Hardwicke still had to convince Summit Entertainment, the studio bankrolling Twilight, that Pattinson was the guy.
"There was a call from the head of the studio," Hardwicke says. " 'Are you sure you can make this guy handsome?' "
They sent him to a trainer, dyed his hair and cut it. Pattinson immersed himself in the lore—the novels and Midnight Sun, Meyer's unpublished, unfinished retelling of Twilight from Edward's point of view. ("I was a vampire, and she had the sweetest blood I'd smelled in eighty years.") He showed up to shoot the movie with a lot of ideas about how it could be more than a horror-tinged tween romance. How Edward could be less like the turtlenecked Prince Charming from the novels—"If you met a guy like that in real life," he says, "you'd think he was kind of dorky"—and more like the edgy dude burning himself with cigarettes in the corner at the high school party. Less hottie, more monster. He thought that at the end of the movie, when Edward and Bella slow-dance to Iron & Wine on prom night, they shouldn't kiss. "I thought that would be interesting," he says, "for a teen thing."
In the books, Edward refuses to go all the way with Bella, fearing he'll vamp out in the heat of passion, but because he's a 107-year-old vampire, he's got seduction game like no 17-year-old alive. The story fuses the bodice-ripping True Love Never Dies sensuality of the vampire mythos with the True Love Waits ethos of Bush-era abstinence education; it's a heavy-breathing romance in which all physical affection represents a slippery slope to horrible undeath.
The movie amps up the lust. Bella and Edward's relationship plays out like a goth remix of Splendor in the Grass, and Pattinson seethes like Warren Beatty driven—forgive us—batshit by a hundred-year case of blue balls.
Twilight got mixed reviews but opened huge anyway, pulling down $70 million in three days. By then the screaming had started. Girls who'd been in love with Edward on the page suddenly had a real-live human to focus their passion on. The cast's public appearances occasioned Hard Day's Night hysteria. In London, Pattinson's friends watched in horror as the crowd swallowed him. At a mall in San Francisco, Pattinson was supposed to sign autographs for about 500 fans at a Hot Topic store; a few thousand showed up. Pattinson claims not to remember the chaos that resulted, although he says it in a shaky voice, like someone claiming not to remember shit that went down in Nam.
Pattinson says he's always been hypersensitive about being looked at, that when he was a kid and somebody'd make eye contact with him on the bus or something, he'd freak out. He's one of those tall people who hunch, trying to disappear. Then all this stuff happened. He wasn't ready. His first thought, whenever he finds himself in one of these crowds, is always, Someone could very easily stab me.
"And I turn around," he says, "and in the car next to me, there's a woman giving a man a blow job! Right there, in the car park!"
This is what this kind of attention does to you; to do the things that normal people do, you have to go where normal people go to do furtive things.
Somebody got pictures of him anyway. Hidden in the darkness! Like some kind of Hamburglar!
He tries not to go out if he can avoid it. Stays home, watches movies, microwaves. Mostly, though, he reads about himself on the Internet. According to the Internet, there is another Robert Pattinson out there, living a very different life. A creature of the night, eager to sink his fangs into anything with boobs and a pulse. All bullshit, Pattinson says, but he reads the stories anyway, out of a kind of masochistic narcissism.
And he admits to reading it, which is the really weird part. He reads the gossip blogs and the Twilight fan fiction ("It's surprisingly hard-core. And very well written"). He knows what the fake Robert Pattinson said on the fake Robert Pattinson Facebook page. (The fake Robert Pattinson claimed to have nailed Kristen Stewart. The fake Robert Pattinson was kind of like Chuck Bass, if Chuck Bass were uncouth enough to trumpet his conquests on somebody's Wall.)
"Everybody came in doing something empty and shallow and thoughtless," Stewart says. "I know that's a fucking great thing to say about all the other actors—but Rob understood that it wasn't a frivolous role."
Hardwicke still had to convince Summit Entertainment, the studio bankrolling Twilight, that Pattinson was the guy.
"There was a call from the head of the studio," Hardwicke says. " 'Are you sure you can make this guy handsome?' "
They sent him to a trainer, dyed his hair and cut it. Pattinson immersed himself in the lore—the novels and Midnight Sun, Meyer's unpublished, unfinished retelling of Twilight from Edward's point of view. ("I was a vampire, and she had the sweetest blood I'd smelled in eighty years.") He showed up to shoot the movie with a lot of ideas about how it could be more than a horror-tinged tween romance. How Edward could be less like the turtlenecked Prince Charming from the novels—"If you met a guy like that in real life," he says, "you'd think he was kind of dorky"—and more like the edgy dude burning himself with cigarettes in the corner at the high school party. Less hottie, more monster. He thought that at the end of the movie, when Edward and Bella slow-dance to Iron & Wine on prom night, they shouldn't kiss. "I thought that would be interesting," he says, "for a teen thing."
In the books, Edward refuses to go all the way with Bella, fearing he'll vamp out in the heat of passion, but because he's a 107-year-old vampire, he's got seduction game like no 17-year-old alive. The story fuses the bodice-ripping True Love Never Dies sensuality of the vampire mythos with the True Love Waits ethos of Bush-era abstinence education; it's a heavy-breathing romance in which all physical affection represents a slippery slope to horrible undeath.
The movie amps up the lust. Bella and Edward's relationship plays out like a goth remix of Splendor in the Grass, and Pattinson seethes like Warren Beatty driven—forgive us—batshit by a hundred-year case of blue balls.
Twilight got mixed reviews but opened huge anyway, pulling down $70 million in three days. By then the screaming had started. Girls who'd been in love with Edward on the page suddenly had a real-live human to focus their passion on. The cast's public appearances occasioned Hard Day's Night hysteria. In London, Pattinson's friends watched in horror as the crowd swallowed him. At a mall in San Francisco, Pattinson was supposed to sign autographs for about 500 fans at a Hot Topic store; a few thousand showed up. Pattinson claims not to remember the chaos that resulted, although he says it in a shaky voice, like someone claiming not to remember shit that went down in Nam.
Pattinson says he's always been hypersensitive about being looked at, that when he was a kid and somebody'd make eye contact with him on the bus or something, he'd freak out. He's one of those tall people who hunch, trying to disappear. Then all this stuff happened. He wasn't ready. His first thought, whenever he finds himself in one of these crowds, is always, Someone could very easily stab me.
*****
He isn't complaining. We don't want to make it sound
like he's complaining. But he can feel all of it making him crazy. It's
like being a fugitive in your own backyard. The other day, he went out,
shook off three paparazzi-mobiles, hit the drive-thru at the In-N-Out.
He was going to eat a burger in the car. He drove around and found a
gas-station parking lot a few blocks away, intending to sit there and
eat, "just hidden, in the darkness."And I turn around," he says, "and in the car next to me, there's a woman giving a man a blow job! Right there, in the car park!"
This is what this kind of attention does to you; to do the things that normal people do, you have to go where normal people go to do furtive things.
Somebody got pictures of him anyway. Hidden in the darkness! Like some kind of Hamburglar!
He tries not to go out if he can avoid it. Stays home, watches movies, microwaves. Mostly, though, he reads about himself on the Internet. According to the Internet, there is another Robert Pattinson out there, living a very different life. A creature of the night, eager to sink his fangs into anything with boobs and a pulse. All bullshit, Pattinson says, but he reads the stories anyway, out of a kind of masochistic narcissism.
And he admits to reading it, which is the really weird part. He reads the gossip blogs and the Twilight fan fiction ("It's surprisingly hard-core. And very well written"). He knows what the fake Robert Pattinson said on the fake Robert Pattinson Facebook page. (The fake Robert Pattinson claimed to have nailed Kristen Stewart. The fake Robert Pattinson was kind of like Chuck Bass, if Chuck Bass were uncouth enough to trumpet his conquests on somebody's Wall.)
Part of the problem is that gossip abhors a vacuum, and for all
intents and purposes, Pattinson didn't exist as a public figure until he
was cast in Twilight; his celebrity is a movie tie-in product,
like the Edward action figure or Twilight, the perfume (smells like
"lavender and freesia"—as for what freesia smells like, you're on your
own).
For what it's worth: He grew up in London. His mom worked for a modeling agency, his dad was a luxury-car importer. He did some modeling as a kid, some amateur theater, some British TV, took a break from a fancy prep school to do Harry Potter. There's so little to know about him that everything he says now becomes hyperimportant, data to be gospelized. A reporter asks him something stupid about his hair, he makes a dumb joke about never washing it, and suddenly his clip file grows fat with stories about his deplorable personal hygiene. Sometimes he doesn't even have to say anything. People make stuff up.
"There's literally not a single [true] story that could be written about me," he says. "I never do anything."
We ask him to cite an example of something untrue that's been written about him.
"There's this thing about my supposed girlfriend," he says. "There's this one girl who's consistently mentioned. It's like, 'He's dating this Brazilian model.' "
Go on.
"Yes," he says. "What's her name—Annelyse. I've never met her."
Annelyse's last name is Schoenberger; after she was spotted with Pattinson at a Kings of Leon concert last October, aggrieved R-Patts fans accused her, on the Internet, of having an "alien face."
But c'mon, we say to Pattinson. We ask you to deny something and you give us the Brazilian model? That's the celebrity-relationship-denial equivalent of claiming you have a girlfriend in Canada. Did you really propose to Kristen Stewart every day while shooting Twilight?
"I said that in some interview, as a joke—'Oh, I proposed to her multiple times.' And then it gets printed: 'On the set, he proposed multiple times.' "
(Later we ask Stewart about this: "He probably proposes to several girls a day," she says, bone-drily. "It's sort of his thing. He thinks it's cute.")
Okay. What about the love triangle between you, Camilla Belle, and Joe Jonas from the Jonas Brothers?
"That's the funniest one," Pattinson says. "No. I mean, yeah, yeah, I'm friends with Camilla."
He starts to explain how Belle, best known for playing a cavegirl in 10,000 BC, dated, or is supposed to have once dated—we have trouble following the thread—his friend, an actor named Tom Sturridge. So you're supposed to have stolen her from your best friend, we ask, before you stole her from the other dude?
"From the Jonas brother, yeah," Pattinson says. "I'm completely out of control. It's funny, though, because I met her at her place the other day, and there's a security gate, and even the security woman—I guess she knows that Camilla lives there, and she was like, 'Oooh!' "
Okay, we say. So you're picking her up at her apartment?
"Like, once," he says. "But it's like—they always say 'A source said,' and I don't know a single person that could be a source."
But we've seen pictures. You guys were walking in Venice Beach, after lunch.
"That's the extent of it," Pattinson says. "I mean, Camilla's the nicest—she's a saint. And it's funny that she's being portrayed as this home wrecker. She's literally the most unlikely person to be a home wrecker. It's just ridiculous."
So it's a friendship, we ask him, that's been misinterpreted?
"I mean—yeah," he says. "I don't see people. I don't even have people's phone numbers. I almost don't want to have a girlfriend, in this environment."
This is maybe the most poorly executed denial we've ever heard. This is, in fact, how we would deny dating Camilla Belle if we wanted as many people as possible to believe that we were totally hitting that, while still coming off as an untruthful person. Either Pattinson can't lie, or he can't lie very well.
It's funny, because Pattinson worships Jack Nicholson, who's legendary for giving interviewers less than the time of day. And he loves Brando, citing a YouTube clip of the actor giving a characteristically performance-arty and uncooperative press conference in the mid-'60s. Brando could do that, of course, because he was Marlon fucking Brando. Brando could show up, burp the alphabet in front of a couple of Associated Press guys, and catch the next plane back to Tahiti. Pattinson understands that this isn't an option for him.
"The only way to establish any kind of mystique," he says, "is to completely shut up and never talk to anyone. And I'm contractually obligated not to shut up."
For what it's worth: He grew up in London. His mom worked for a modeling agency, his dad was a luxury-car importer. He did some modeling as a kid, some amateur theater, some British TV, took a break from a fancy prep school to do Harry Potter. There's so little to know about him that everything he says now becomes hyperimportant, data to be gospelized. A reporter asks him something stupid about his hair, he makes a dumb joke about never washing it, and suddenly his clip file grows fat with stories about his deplorable personal hygiene. Sometimes he doesn't even have to say anything. People make stuff up.
"There's literally not a single [true] story that could be written about me," he says. "I never do anything."
We ask him to cite an example of something untrue that's been written about him.
"There's this thing about my supposed girlfriend," he says. "There's this one girl who's consistently mentioned. It's like, 'He's dating this Brazilian model.' "
Go on.
"Yes," he says. "What's her name—Annelyse. I've never met her."
Annelyse's last name is Schoenberger; after she was spotted with Pattinson at a Kings of Leon concert last October, aggrieved R-Patts fans accused her, on the Internet, of having an "alien face."
But c'mon, we say to Pattinson. We ask you to deny something and you give us the Brazilian model? That's the celebrity-relationship-denial equivalent of claiming you have a girlfriend in Canada. Did you really propose to Kristen Stewart every day while shooting Twilight?
"I said that in some interview, as a joke—'Oh, I proposed to her multiple times.' And then it gets printed: 'On the set, he proposed multiple times.' "
(Later we ask Stewart about this: "He probably proposes to several girls a day," she says, bone-drily. "It's sort of his thing. He thinks it's cute.")
Okay. What about the love triangle between you, Camilla Belle, and Joe Jonas from the Jonas Brothers?
"That's the funniest one," Pattinson says. "No. I mean, yeah, yeah, I'm friends with Camilla."
He starts to explain how Belle, best known for playing a cavegirl in 10,000 BC, dated, or is supposed to have once dated—we have trouble following the thread—his friend, an actor named Tom Sturridge. So you're supposed to have stolen her from your best friend, we ask, before you stole her from the other dude?
"From the Jonas brother, yeah," Pattinson says. "I'm completely out of control. It's funny, though, because I met her at her place the other day, and there's a security gate, and even the security woman—I guess she knows that Camilla lives there, and she was like, 'Oooh!' "
Okay, we say. So you're picking her up at her apartment?
"Like, once," he says. "But it's like—they always say 'A source said,' and I don't know a single person that could be a source."
But we've seen pictures. You guys were walking in Venice Beach, after lunch.
"That's the extent of it," Pattinson says. "I mean, Camilla's the nicest—she's a saint. And it's funny that she's being portrayed as this home wrecker. She's literally the most unlikely person to be a home wrecker. It's just ridiculous."
So it's a friendship, we ask him, that's been misinterpreted?
"I mean—yeah," he says. "I don't see people. I don't even have people's phone numbers. I almost don't want to have a girlfriend, in this environment."
This is maybe the most poorly executed denial we've ever heard. This is, in fact, how we would deny dating Camilla Belle if we wanted as many people as possible to believe that we were totally hitting that, while still coming off as an untruthful person. Either Pattinson can't lie, or he can't lie very well.
It's funny, because Pattinson worships Jack Nicholson, who's legendary for giving interviewers less than the time of day. And he loves Brando, citing a YouTube clip of the actor giving a characteristically performance-arty and uncooperative press conference in the mid-'60s. Brando could do that, of course, because he was Marlon fucking Brando. Brando could show up, burp the alphabet in front of a couple of Associated Press guys, and catch the next plane back to Tahiti. Pattinson understands that this isn't an option for him.
"The only way to establish any kind of mystique," he says, "is to completely shut up and never talk to anyone. And I'm contractually obligated not to shut up."
*****
Pattinson hasn't shot anything new since Twilight wrapped. He won't be in front of the camera again until this spring, when he starts shooting the next Twilight movie, New Moon, due out in November. But in the meantime, he'll show up as young Salvador Dalí in a period drama called Little Ashes, about the pre-fame bromance between Dalí, director Luis Buñuel, and poet Federico García Lorca. 
