LOS ANGELES — The pert blonde in the headset peeks into the airless basement conference room. “Rob will be here in five minutes,’’ she says, flashing a smile.
The Rob to whom she refers is Robert Pattinson, the 24-year-old British actor whose penetrating gaze and masterfully moussed hair have helped propel the “Twilight’’ films into a $1.8 billion franchise — with two installments still to be released. Teenage girls around the globe fill Tumblr pages with testimonies to his hotness. Paparazzi stalk him tirelessly, mouths watering. Perimenopausal women, old enough to be his mother, dare to dream.
The blonde in the headset returns. “Rob will be here in one minute.’’
It’s clear now this is no mere estimation. Watches have been synchronized. Spreadsheets distributed. Clipboards clipped.
For two days, Pattinson has been holed up at this luxury beachfront hotel, talking to swarms of reporters, bloggers, and television crews about his latest film, the Depression-era drama “Water for Elephants’’ that opens Friday. Based on the romantic bestseller by Sara Gruen, it’s the story of a young veterinary student (played by Pattinson) who, after losing his parents in a tragic accident, jumps a circus train and falls in with the crew, including the show’s brutal and ambitious owner and his beautiful wife.
Incase this link doesn't work, below is a YouTube version.
*I love how close the camera is to Rob in this video... *swoon**
Costarring Oscar winners Reese Witherspoon and Christoph Waltz, the film marks Pattinson’s first big-budget role since “Twilight’’ turned him into a pop-culture sensation. If the young actor hopes to have a broad career beyond the B-movie (some would say C-movie) realm of angsty teen vampires, “Water for Elephants’’ could smooth the way.
When the conference room door finally swings open and the superstar lopes in — shuttled apparently through some sort of underground utility tunnel — he is flanked by his manager and a massive bodyguard. The blonde waits nearby, not smiling now, but looking at her phone, her schedule, listening to the voice on the headset.
In the windowless hallway beyond, a cluster of studio types mill about, texting, talking about what’s next, who’s next. Off to one side is another man, eyes like black ice, who looks as if he would happily sink a steel throwing star in your left temple if you made one wrong move.
