Ivan Reitman (catch up on Part 1, if you are confused as to why he’s here) hobbled back inside my place 4 minutes later, reeking of intoxicants (also, peruse Part 2 if you still have no idea what is happening). His bloodied feet were wrapped in newspapers, but they were still bleeding all over my carpet.
“Ivan, thanks for coming back. Wow, your feet are bleeding profusely. Should I get you some bandages, or take you to the hospital?”
“No thanks. I’ve got a condition, I forget what it’s called, but it’s where your feet start to bleed after you run across broken glass barefooted. It’s nothing really. My doctor says it’s quite common.” He then propped his dripping feet up on my coffee table, and began gingerly peeling the layers of newspaper off. I watched in shock as he rolled the soaking paper into fist sized balls, and stuffed them into his pants pockets. It was excruciating to observe, but at least he was making an effort to not get any blood on my couch.
“Great. Are you ready to continue the interview? I’ve got a few more questions I’d like to ask,” I gestured to my notepad, on the table, now underneath a growing bloody-newspaper-ball pyramid. “Or if that phone call rattled you too much, we can meet again later. You do look a little unsettled.” His appearance could be due to the loss of blood, and possibly the alcohol he no doubt imbibed while outside.
“I’m fine. That skank-waffle keeps calling me, and it makes me really upset. I had to go for an anger-walk. But let’s get this thing done, I need to get home and brush my teeth before my dentist appointment.” With that, he snatched the microphone off the table, belched into it loudly, and shouted, “LET’S DO IT.”
dongtacular: Ugh, that was a vile burp. Were you drinking outside?
Ivan Reitman: Nooooo…
DT: Come on, you’re obviously drunk. What have you been drinking? It smells horrendous, like furniture varnish.
IR: Scotchka! The drink of professional filmmakers!
DT: Where did you get the scotchka?
IR: From my mule. The saddlebags on my mule.
DT: You have a mule?
IR: Well, I didn’t walk here, ya douche-wagon.
DT: Are you still drunk from 2 nights ago?
IR: No, of course not. I’m just drunk again. Although, I haven’t slept since then, and I’ve been drinking constantly the whole time. I take it back, I am still drunk.
DT: Whatever. Let’s get back on topic, I’ll just slide my notepad out from under this wad of bloody papers, and, ok. How was your experience with Natalie Portman filming No Strings Attached? Is she as needy as the tabloids say?
IR: Natalie was phenomenal. And damn sexy. The only thing that was difficult was that she changes her hairstyle more often than I drink. Multiple times a day. But she is always still hot. She gets hotter as the day goes on and I am further sloshed.
DT: I can’t argue with you there. I’ve got a bit of a thing for her too. Now, did you have any other involvement with this film, other than directing?
IR: Yup, I produced it too. And, I came up with the idea for the No Strings Attached poster! I said, ‘Put Natalie naked on it. That’ll sell tickets.’ They told me we couldn’t, so I said, ‘Make it look like she was just naked, you know, have naked parts hanging out.’
DT: After seeing Black Swan twice, I feel like her performance in that film could be tainted by you putting her in this movie in theatres at the same time. What did you think of Natalie in Black Swan?
IR: I haven’t seen Black Swan. I only watch shitty movies, remember? But I did hear that she was doing some lesbian shit in that flick. I should check it out.
DT: Alright, it looks like the sun is up. I guess that means you have to go, according to your “Twilight Interview Rule.” One last question, are you drunk all the time?
IR: I’m not drunk all the time, just most of the time. Like whenever I have to go to a photoshoot, or a press docket. Basically, whenever people are taking pictures of me, I’m drunk. I’ve got that goofy, toothy grin on my face. I don’t normally look like that, but the only pictures you ever see of me I look drunk, because I am. COOL! If we’re done now, let me turn off your recorder for you.
Ivan smoothly tapped the recorder with his bloody heel. “I should probably go, but this was a lot of fun. Thanks for promoting my film. Can I have this?” He swiped the bottle of schnapps as he stood up and slid towards the door, as if his crimson-scabbed feet were roller-skates. I can’t fathom how he was still bleeding. There was a man-sized puddle of blood in my living room. My carpet would need to be shampooed again. Or burned.
I got up to see him off, but he had sprinted away, leaving footprints of scabbed skin and a waft of alcohol in his wake. There is no better way to start a day than watching a drunken, giggling man ride off into the sunrise, as the sound of a galloping mule wakes your neighbours.