But he finds a pair of pants that zip up and takes his place in front of a white backdrop. A tiny Hungarian hairstylist attempts to cool him off with a tiny motorized fan, and a neighbor in a camo jacket and "What should I do with my hands? He uses his pant-busting quads to rock the two-thousand-pound boat up and down, spraying swamp at his people, the magazine's people, and Sid the airboat driver and part-owner of this parcel of land and water."That's a workout!""Pretend you're Bond," says the photographer."Bond. " he says through teeth clenched around the cigar he produced from his pocket.Your driver misses a turn out here and it's thirty miles before you get a chance to turn around.Still, the thirty-five-year-old is apologizing as he goes to get dressed in suits that are mostly too small for the action-hero muscles he developed for . I own a family plumbing company.""Great, Chris, perfect.""The lens is a douche magnet. Then he half-puckers his lips and makes perfect "Oh, these eyebrows? Everyone gets on the airboats—ladies first, Pratt insists—and they take off.The best stuff that you hear me say will be stuff that I thought of over the past three years.The best acting I did was pretending that it was improv and sneaking it in like I just stumbled on it."I feel like I'm giving away my secrets. That's always worked for me in the past."Remember the end of , when Guy Pearce finds out that reality as he perceives it is bullshit?[ He believes in this kind of alchemy, formulas that will allow him to succeed if he follows through with the force of his tremendous will. ("Great voice, a great look, and his soul has got an interesting rhythm.") Right now, Pratt is a soft twenty-two, but he probably has a five-year plan to eke his way to a twenty-four. NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOO."We fall back, exhausted from our momentary emotional investment, and talk about female jockeys and using your mind to operate televisions and Pratt's modified margarita recipe (one part margarita mix, one part tequila, a quarter part whiskey, a quarter part Grand Marnier, lime) and his plans to go frog spearing with Willie Robertson, and how everyone is connected through God, he and I and that loser California Chrome.
Based on the "Aw shucks, I don't know what a dumb-dumb like me is doing here" shtick from yesterday, I expect him to go for a modest six or seven so I can graciously take over. According to Pratt, there are twenty-five Pratt lovers in our vicinity, or at least twenty-five people who will see a muscle-bound six-foot-two dude with the gilt of importance, that cared-for look and glow of charisma that tells plebes he's somebody they should know, and do a double take. It's the only sensible move given Pratt's oeuvre—goofy supporting parts in B comedies If we were meeting a couple months from now, it wouldn't be a great bet.
By then, people will know Pratt as Indiana-Jones-by-way-of-Bart-Simpson space pirate Peter Quill in Marvel's summer blockbuster during the last sputters of her first marriage.
She was hot and funny, but she wasn't single, so there were no stakes. So when she called him to tell him that she had left her husband, Pratt decided he was going to marry her.
The hat is clearly meant to make him invisible, but we're in a land of rich people wearing elaborate millinery, so it's more like a sandwich board advertising his Other status.
When the man greets Pratt, he springs into affability, smiling and shaking the guy's hand, seeming like more an ambassador of Chris Pratt than the man himself.
Pratt is trying to distill the good parts of the man he loved so ferociously from the whole messy package, strain out the anger that he also feels sometimes, so that his own two-year-old son, Jack Daniel (the first name after Faris's father, the second after Pratt's), will be appropriately afraid of disappointing him but won't feel the need to get into a fistfight with him over the channel changer.