“I do not fucking think of that,” he claims, with this half-comic ambiguity. “Why am we achieving this fucking meeting? You’re planning to destroy my acting.”

“I do not fucking think of that,” he claims, with this half-comic ambiguity. “Why am we achieving this fucking meeting? You’re planning to destroy my acting.”

Joaquin Phoenix is, while he informs me at one point, “as sensitive as any motherfucker is.” He rescued from euthanasia 13 years ago when I show up to his mission-style bungalow on a steep canyon road in the Hollywood Hills, he’s in the kitchen boiling a pot of sweet potatoes for his vegan dogs, Oskar and Soda, the latter a large white pit bull mix. Soda has a sensitivity to sunlight, which means that she should be held from the sunlight from nine to five. Читать далее «“I do not fucking think of that,” he claims, with this half-comic ambiguity. “Why am we achieving this fucking meeting? You’re planning to destroy my acting.”»

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