Everything was new and unfamiliar.
Over the past three weeks, Anson's life felt like it had been tossed into a spin dryer, with the high-speed setting turned on.
Hotel. Car.
These two places beca his constant companions as he traveled across every corner of North Arica, constantly moving from city to city for promotions, day and night, never settling.
He was either in a hotel room or a car, or in theaters, studios, recording booths, or et-and-greet venues. All of them were box-like, enclosed spaces. Occasionally, he could glimpse the streets speeding by outside the car window, but before he could take in the view, he'd already drifted off to sleep.
Cities?
Forget sightseeing; he didn't even have ti to take a good look.
Every day was just a monotonous cycle of switching between different indoor settings. Whether he was in New Orleans or Denver, Little Rock or xico City, it all seed to blend together with no noticeable difference.
Even the interviews, conversations, and audience interactions beca repetitive, with the sa topics, interactions, and templates being copied and pasted over and over. No matter how much enthusiasm he had, it was gradually worn down by the endless repetition.
The only saving grace was that in 2002, the concept of a "global premiere" existed but hadn't yet beco widespread. So, the promotional efforts were still limited to North Arica, without the need to fly across oceans and continents. The long and tedious promotion seed sowhat bearable.
In his past life, Anson had read an interview with three-ti Oscar winner Daniel Day-Lewis, where he said:
"Promoting a movie is more exhausting than filming it; and the award season's public relations grind is utterly draining."
At the ti, Anson didn't understand this; but now, he was starting to get it. Behind the glamorous and bustling world of movies, things were clearly not as simple as they seed.
Promotion isn't just tiring; it's an all-encompassing grind.
Day after day, repetition after repetition, it slowly erodes one's sense of ti and space, like a hurricane sweeping away the soul.
At first, his mind still had so confusion:
Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?
Every ti he arrived in a new place, he could spot differences amid the similarities, like a "spot the difference" ga, stimulating his brain to think. Questions would arise, and his brain seed to have the energy to process them.
But slowly, those questions began to lose their aning. The order of ti and space beca completely disordered, and it was impossible to keep up with the pace. Endless questions filled his mind, but instead of pondering them, he preferred to close his eyes and catch five more minutes of sleep.
Eventually, the confusion and uncertainty were replaced by a numb acceptance.
Now, Anson finally understood why actors and directors often seed so tired and robotic during movie promotions, utterly devoid of energy—
It's like a marathon, slowly wearing you down.
But what fault is it of the fans and the audience?
They just want to get close to the actors. To them, those repetitive topics are all fresh, especially in an era when the internet wasn't as developed, and the speed and reach of information were limited, making it even more so.
To avoid becoming one of those "emotionless promotional machines," Anson often took over the host's role at promotional events, casually chatting with the audience—
Sotis about superheroes, sotis about comics, sotis about music or other hobbies, and sotis playing small interactive gas with the audience.
The hosts would be frazzled, sweating bullets, but Anson and the audience would be having a blast. Jas Franco and Kirsten Dunst, not wanting to miss out on the fun, would also join in, causing even more chaos. The three young stars ended up having a great ti.
This beca one of the most talked-about highlights of the "Spider-Man" promotional period.
Every ti a promotional event ended, the news dia eagerly reported on it, and so newspapers even took an unconventional approach by sending out teams to follow the "Spider-Man" promotional tour, spreading interesting tidbits about the events as quickly as possible.
Twenty years later, such "live updates" would be commonplace on social dia platforms, but in 2002, this was groundbreaking and novel.
However, for Anson, without the seamless connectivity of smartphones, he had no way of gauging the promotional montum or the level of public discussion. Constantly moving from one city to another, he couldn't feel the buzz—
It all felt unreal.
Even though Edgar and the "Spider-Man" promotional team kept telling them that everything was on track and that the promotional impact was far exceeding expectations, Anson and the others had no way to verify this. They couldn't see or touch the results.
Rumors circulated about "full ferntation, full explosion," and how "all of North Arica was in a frenzy," but they were just rumors. Anson and his team were still lost in a chaotic journey through ti and space, as if they had been thrown into a black hole.
Anson was utterly exhausted.
It was a kind of burnout.
Sleeping two to three hours a night beca the norm, and Anson developed the skill of sleeping in the backseat of a car. Jas and Kirsten were in the sa boat; they didn't seem like movie stars at all but rather like gypsies, constantly wandering and on the move.
Even though they had mastered the art of falling asleep anywhere, anyti, they were still sleep-deprived. At any mont, in any brief pause, they might drift into a semi-conscious state, losing all sense of where they were or what they were doing—
Buzz.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
His phone was vibrating. The sound, faint at first, quickly caught his attention, and instinctively he mumbled, "I'm up, I'm awake."
But in reality, his eyes remained tightly shut. Every extra second of sleep was precious.
Finally, the buzzing stopped.
Anson beca more alert, his first reflex being that the car had stopped, which ant he had to get out and move. He sat up straight with a start.
Squinting, he looked around, trying to figure out where he was. Before he could fully process his surroundings, his phone buzzed again, instantly grabbing his attention.
This ti, Anson finally realized what was going on. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, curled up, and buried himself back under the covers.
"Hello, this is Anson."
His voice was hoarse and heavy, laden with sleep, as he lazily greeted the caller.
On the other end of the line, there was a flurry of activity.
"… A ticket to Los Angeles, the sooner, the better. Yes, right away, imdiately!" The person seed to be talking to soone else, only realizing the call had connected a mont later. They urgently asked, "Anson? Anson! Jesus Christ, are you okay? Anson?"
Anson: Buzz, buzz, buzz.
A buzzing echoed in his head, like a persistent drone.
"I'm fine. I'll be out soon, just give a mont to… wash up… just a bit…"
Nonsensical.
Anson didn't even know what he was saying. He sat up groggily but then just sat there, legs crossed, with his hair a ss, staring blankly.
On the other end of the line, the person held their breath, "Anson, are you sure you're okay? Are you really alright?"
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