After stepping out of the makeup trailer, Matthew and Keira Knightley had hoped to slip away while Johnny Depp drew the press, but with Disneyland hosting Angels Wear White, the place was crawling with reporters. Before they could reach their ride, they were swarmed by journalists and paparazzi.
"Matthew Horner, Keira Knightley!"
A reporter shouted, "There've been rumors that you two are dating. is it true?"
That wasn't part of the plan the Crew and his Agent had laid out; Matthew wouldn't confirm, yet he didn't deny it either, just tried to shoulder past the reporters.
Another reporter zeroed in on Keira Knightley. "Miss Knightley, critics have said your performances in recent films were stiff and expressionless. What do you say?"
"What?" Keira's eyes flashed.
Matthew, who'd spent enough time around her to read the danger signs, quickly tugged her arm.
His warning snapped Keira back to her senses. "I've spent the past few years making films, devoting every hour to becoming someone else. If you can look at the world and at people that way, your characters keep evolving. That's my goal."
The reporter wouldn't let up. "And what about the negative reviews?"
"I don't read them," Keira said, glancing at Matthew. "Friends like Matthew are far better judges of my work."
Hearing that, the press swung their guns back to him. "Matthew, can you talk about your relationship with Miss Knightley?"
While edging Keira toward the car, Matthew rattled off, "Keira is a brilliant actress and a wonderful friend…"
He droned a string of harmless platitudes until they reached the vehicle; with the driver's help he stuffed Keira into the back seat, then dove in after her, breaking through the ring of reporters.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Though it wasn't her assigned car, Keira urged, "Drive, quickly!"
The car crawled along, taking ages to clear the Disneyland area. Matthew looked back: motorcycles still tailed them, and one daring pap pulled alongside—two to a bike—while the passenger raised a camera and snapped shots through the side window.
Keira stuck her tongue out at them. "Disgusting!"
"They can't see in," Matthew reminded.
The windows were coated with special tint; from outside you could only make out vague silhouettes—useless for a clear photo.
Realizing that, the paparazzi dropped back but kept trailing at a distance. Matthew knew the tabloids had once forced a rumored romance onto him and Keira; now that pirates of the caribbean was in full publicity mode, the two of them were magnets—paparazzi would tail them all the way home.
"Keira, where to?" Matthew asked.
"The hotel," she said, glancing back again. "Depp offended Michael Eisner—will he be in trouble?"
Matthew considered. "Depends on whether pirates of the caribbean succeeds."
Keira frowned. "Hmm?"
"If the film's a smash, this spat is nothing. When it's time for sequels, Disney will beg Depp to return. If it bombs and Disney loses big, Michael Eisner might settle scores."
He added, "Same goes for us."
Keira asked suddenly, "Do you think it'll be a hit?"
"You'd better hope so," Matthew said gravely. "If Pirates fails, Depp can stay Hollywood's oddball—Tim Burton will still cast him. But you and I…"
He shook his head. "We're finished."
They talked box-office all the way to Keira's hotel.
Before stepping out, Keira said, "I turn eighteen next week."
Matthew nodded knowingly. "Time to make it official, boyfriend-girlfriend."
Keira didn't bother with modesty. "Thought of my present yet?"
"How about…" Matthew drew the words out, "me?"
"Forget it." Keira opened the door. "I'd still have to pay someone to haul the trash away—too expensive."
She climbed out and strode toward the hotel's revolving door without looking back.
Matthew watched until she disappeared inside, then told the driver to head for Burbank, mulling over Keira's words as the car moved off.
Per last year's agreement, once Keira Knightley turned eighteen, the Crew would choose the right moment to announce their supposed romance, using a publicity stunt to create buzz and make the actors plus the film add up to more than the sum of their parts.
For this campaign, he had kept his slate completely clean for months, even turning down secret dates with Rachel McAdams.
It wasn't that he feared being photographed; if you were careful enough, you could dodge the reporters and paparazzi. After all, he was just one more grain of sand among the countless minor celebrities in Los Angeles.
On the contrary, what worried Matthew was Rachel McAdams herself. He'd come to realize that the naïve Rachel McAdams of two years ago had vanished without a trace, replaced by a calculating woman determined to climb.
If there was profit in it, Rachel McAdams wouldn't hesitate to sell him out.
Any other time he wouldn't care, but during this sensitive period it would spell trouble. The contract he'd signed with Keira Knightley carried a clause: breach would cost him three million dollars in damages.
However skilled Rachel McAdams was—and he did enjoy himself—that enjoyment wasn't worth a three-million-dollar loss.
Over the next few days, Matthew cooperated with Walt Disney Pictures' publicity schedule, doing everything he could to drum up attention for pirates of the caribbean.
Even though the North America release was still months away, and the summer season wouldn't start for another month, this year's battle for blockbuster publicity had already kicked off during the Super Bowl in early February; every studio was pouring money into promoting its big tent-poles.
Warner Bros., for instance, had posters, ads, and trailers for The Empire of Black 2: Reloaded everywhere you looked.
At Johnny Depp's bar, Matthew again ran into Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron. Unlike last time, Charlize Theron had ballooned up and shaved off her eyebrows—her image was utterly wrecked.
From Keanu Reeves he learned that Charlize Theron was preparing to shoot a film called monster, a project tailor-made to win the academy award for best actress.
Watching Charlize Theron go to such lengths for an Oscar statuette, Matthew felt no admiration—only dread. If it were him, was destroying his image worth a trophy?
Inside, he shook his head firmly: horrifying to imagine, impossible to do.
Coming to America, Matthew's greatest asset was this exceptionally fine body of his.
Broadly speaking, mainstream Hollywood movies fall into two camps: crowd-pleasing blockbusters for the masses, and prestige pictures aimed at the Academy's old men, critics, and a handful of cinephiles. The first group caters to the broadest possible audience; the second is custom-built for Oscar voters.
To Matthew, prestige films crafted for the Oscars weren't inherently superior to popcorn movies.
After a few years in the business, he'd seen what 99 percent of these prestige projects really look like: they pander to middle-aged white voters, tick every Hollywood box of political correctness, cast actors against type, force good-looking performers to wreck their looks, and spend fortunes on publicity. How much of that is art? Fundamentally, they're just courting a different demographic, same as blockbusters do.
Numbers don't guarantee clout, but Matthew figured the side with more people definitely buys more tickets—and that means a far bigger paycheck for him—so he was sticking with the masses.
As for Best Actor, Matthew wasn't being vain: with his looks, his current skill level, and the kind of films that had made him famous, chasing an Oscar would be an even steeper climb than Leonardo's.
Later, Leo and Rose could sink another Titanic together—did he have to end up like that?
Better to let it go; if a little gold man came his way, so be it.
Maybe one day the Academy's geezers would get a wild hair and hand him an Oscar for an action flick.
It wouldn't be unprecedented—those old guys spasm all the time; how else do you explain all the surprise winners and losers?
Of course, that was just Matthew's idle musing; he knew the odds were microscopic. In all Hollywood history, how many actors have won acting prizes for action roles?
He'd rather cruise steadily down the commercial path. Being a blockbuster star isn't so bad—at least you never lack money or women.