From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Everything was new and unfamiliar.

Over the past three weeks, Ansel's life had been thrown into a washing machine and spun at high speed—

Hotels. Train cars.

Traveling a straight line between two points, his footsteps covered every corner of the North American continent, constantly rushing between different cities, day and night spent in turbulence.

Either in a hotel or a train car, or in a movie theater, studio, recording room, or meet-and-greet venue, all were square boxes, enclosed spaces, occasionally catching a glimpse of the streets rushing past the car window, but before he could take a closer look, he would drift off to sleep.

Cities?

Forget sightseeing; he didn't even have time to glance around.

Anyway, every day was the same monotonous switching between different indoor scenes. Whether he was in New Orleans or Denver, Little Rock or Mexico City, there seemed to be no discernible difference.

"Promotion is more tiring than filming a movie; and the Academy's public relations during awards season is even more exhausting."

At the time, Ansel didn't understand; but now, Ansel finally understood a little bit. The glamour and noise of the film industry were not as simple as they seemed.

Promotion was not just tiring; it was an all-encompassing grind.

Day after day, again and again, it slowly shattered a person's perception of time and space, like a hurricane engulfing the soul.

In the beginning, the brain still had some doubts:

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?

When arriving at a new place, one could see the differences among the similarities, like a "spot the difference" game, stimulating the brain to think, and questions began to arise, as if the brain still had the energy to function.

But slowly, slowly, these questions seemed to lose their meaning. The order of time and space was completely disrupted, making it impossible to keep up with the rhythm. Endless questions filled the head, and it was better to close your eyes and sleep for five more minutes than to think about them.

Then, confusion and bewilderment were replaced by a matter-of-fact indifference.

Now, Ansel finally understood why those actors and directors often looked so tired and numb when promoting their films, completely unable to muster any energy—

It was a slow, gradual drain, comparable to a marathon.

But what was the fault of the fans and audience?

They just wanted to get close to the actors. Those repetitive topics were all new to them, especially since the internet was not as developed in those years, and the speed and scope of information dissemination were obviously insufficient.

To avoid becoming a "numb and emotionless promotional repeating machine," Ansel often snatched the host's job at promotional events and chatted with the audience—

Sometimes he talked about superheroes, sometimes about comics, sometimes about music or other hobbies, and sometimes he played interactive mini-games with the audience.

The hosts were all flustered and sweating profusely, but Ansel and the audience had a great time. James Franco and Kirsten Dunst were also afraid that the world wouldn't be chaotic enough, joining in the fun and making trouble, and the three young people had a great time themselves.

This also became a well-known anecdote during the "Spider-Man" promotional period.

After each promotional event, the news media couldn't wait to report on it, and even some newspapers took a different approach by sending a team to follow the "Spider-Man" promotion, spreading the anecdotes of the promotional activities as soon as possible.

On social networking platforms twenty years later, such "simultaneous live broadcasts" were common; but in 2002, it was a groundbreaking novelty.

However, for Ansel, lacking the seamless connection of smartphones, he had no way of knowing the momentum of the promotion and the heat of the discussion. He was constantly traveling on the bridge between cities, completely unable to feel the traffic—

He had no sense of reality at all.

Even though Edgar and the "Spider-Man" promotional team told them every now and then that everything was on track and that the promotional effect far exceeded expectations, Ansel and the others still couldn't judge, couldn't see or touch it.

Rumors said that it was "fully fermented and fully ignited" and that "the entire North America was in an uproar," but they were just rumors. They were still trapped in a confusing journey of time and space, as if they had been thrown into a black hole.

Ansel was exhausted, truly exhausted.

Sleeping for two or three hours a day was the norm, so much so that Ansel had developed the ability to sleep in the back seat of a car. James and Kirsten were in the same boat. They were less like movie stars and more like wandering gypsies, constantly wandering and constantly rushing.

Even though he had mastered the skill of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, he was still sleep-deprived. At any time, any gap, a slight oversight might lead to a daze, completely losing the ability to judge his position and situation—

Buzz.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

The phone was constantly vibrating. His ears caught the trivial sound, and he immediately became sensitive, subconsciously replying, "I'm up, I'm up, I'm awake."

But in fact, his eyes were still tightly closed, trying to sleep for as long as possible, even a second was precious.

Finally, the vibration stopped.

Ansel woke up instead. His first subconscious reaction was that the car had stopped, which meant he needed to get out and move, and he sat up straight.

He opened his eyes a crack, looked around, trying to determine his location. Before he could start his brain, the phone vibrated again, immediately grabbing Ansel's attention.

This time, Ansel finally realized what was going on, grabbed the phone from the bedside table, curled up into a ball, and buried himself back in the quilt.

"Hello, this is Ansel."

His voice was hoarse and deep, with the drowsiness of not being fully awake, greeting lazily.

On the other end of the phone, there was a flurry of activity.

"…Tickets to Los Angeles, as soon as possible, yes, immediately, right away!" It seemed like he was talking to someone else, and after a half-beat, he realized that the call had been connected, and asked anxiously, "Ansel? Ansel! Jesus Christ, are you okay? Ansel?"

Ansel: Buzz, buzz, buzz.

A buzzing sound swirled in his head, like an echo.

"I'm okay. I'll be out soon, give me a moment… to wash up… just a little while…"

Gibberish.

Ansel didn't even know what he was saying, groggily sitting up, but with a bird's nest on his head, he sat cross-legged in the quilt without moving.

The other end of the phone couldn't help but hold its breath, "Ansel, are you okay? Are you, sure you're okay?"