Chris Hemsworth covers the December 2015 issue of Vanity Fair, where he is promoting his new film, In the Heart of the Sea.
Here is the interview:
I feel like I’m in a movie. Not just any movie, a highly specific kind of movie, one of those trashy-but-sublime Hollywood jobs, a jet-set-y, South-of-France-y bit of chic piffle that’s about international spies or jewel thieves or cat burglars, only is really about glamorous, sexy stars doing glamorous, sexy things in glamorous, sexy locales. Daft yet delectable; not art yet artful — To Catch a Thief or Diamonds Are Forever maybe. And in this highly specific movie, I’m in a highly specific scene: I’m sitting in a restaurant, open-air and umbrella-dotted, all very relaxed and casual in a way that suggests great expense and exclusivity, the patrons suntanned and sunglassed, the backdrop el primo, knockout spectacular, featuring an ocean that sparkles and fizzes like a sapphire, the exact color, by happy coincidence, of my dining companion’s eyes. And a bit player — a waiter or, possibly, a fellow paying customer — leans into me and says, sotto voce, “Quite a view,” and I, keeping my gaze fixed on the sapphire-eyed person across the table from me, reply, “It certainly is,” my lips twitching in the faintest of ironic smiles.
O.K., well, the exchange with the waiter/paying customer never happened, but the rest of the account is cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die true. The restaurant: Geoffrey’s, pronounced the way the snooty English butler from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air pronounced it, not the way the flesh-eating serial killer from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, pronounced it, and perched on a bluff above the Malibu stretch of the Pacific, which, for my money, knocks the Côte d’Azur right on its derrière. The sapphire-eyed person: Chris Hemsworth.
In March, Hemsworth, 32, hosted Saturday Night Live. It was a strong show all around, but the best bit was a send-up of those American Express commercials that feature famous people presenting themselves in modest, no-frills, this-is-the-real-me ways that are actually self-congratulatory and carefully contrived and showbiz slick. Chris Hemsworth as “Chris Hemsworth” catalogues the various stumbling blocks he encountered on the Road to Success. In the signature faux-humble voice-over (the better to brag to you with, my dear), he says, “When I got to Hollywood, they said I’d never make it as an actor — they said I was too tall, too blond, my muscles were too big.” The line got a roar from the studio audience. And why not? It was funny — and smart. After all, his handsomeness is so extreme it can’t be denied or ignored, or even played down. It verges, in fact, on the parodic, so why not parody it?
Hemsworth is the most movie-starrish of his movie-star peers, by which I mean he’s the best-looking. And, yes, I realize that standards of beauty are highly subjective, the eye of the beholder, tomato-tomahto, etc. But if Hemsworth isn’t the fairest of the male-ingénue set, who is? Channing Tatum’s a hot young hunk raring to go, and in terms of sheer sexiness, just raw, straight-up, wham-bam appeal, he’s the winner, hands down. He also, however, has a beefcake quality. (He knows it, too, and uses it; it’s part of what makes him such a sly — and amusing — presence on-screen.) Bradley Cooper is the guy who was out of your league in college. Not that out of your league, though. Like you might have gotten lucky with him if the lenses on his beer goggles were sufficiently thick and/or fogged and/or smeary. And, granted, Ryan Gosling and Jake Gyllenhaal are, like Hemsworth, bona fide heartthrobs, except they’re an entirely different sub-species thereof — are less physically imposing, more sexually diffident, with an instinct for playing loners and oddballs. And then there’s Tom Hardy, of the spooky-skeezy machismo. Yet while Hardy may have the bod of a leading man, he has the soul of a character actor.
Another point in Hemsworth’s favor: he looks better in person than he does on-screen. Actually, he looks the same in person as he does on-screen, and thus better, since usually there’s an in-real-life letdown. (Wait, what? He’s him — that guy? But that guy’s a shrimp, a peewee, a short stuff! Or — But he has terrible skin! You could blow out a tire on those craters!) Don’t take my word for it, though. See for yourself.
A flashback to the moment he made his entrance:
Geoffrey’s has a driveway that’s a little like Lombard Street in San Francisco — twisty and on a treacherous incline. I was afraid my Uber driver’s car, game but on the shitbox side, wouldn’t be able to huff and puff back to the top, so I got out at the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway. As I walked, the journey extra vertiginous because I was in heels, I was passed by a man on a motorcycle. The man negotiated the hairpin turns without a hitch, stopping neatly in front of the valet. He dismounted, then removed his helmet, confirming what I already knew — that he was He, the Norse God of Thunder from Down Under (it’s common knowledge that Hemsworth’s Australian, right?), Thor. His skin was golden, hair too, though a darker shade of; eyes so purely blue they put the sky and water to shame. He was tall, well over six feet, and slim, made of muscle and sinew, rather than muscle and muscle, which is how he appears when he’s in his hammer-wielding deity incarnation.
The hostess stand at Geoffrey’s faces the valet, and the girls manning it — L.A. girls, jaded girls, girls who can do blasé with both hands tied behind their backs, girls who make it their business, their style, to be unimpressed — stopped breathing as he approached. When he got close, he smiled.
Let’s talk about this smile for a second, since it’s both startling and contradictory: it’s killer, sure, highly trained assassin, white and broad and lustrous, but it’s also nice-guy. There’s a slightly abashed quality to it, too, as if he understands the impact his presence has on people and wants to soften the blow a little. (The smile, by the way, doesn’t help. In fact, it makes everything worse. Because now you have to live with the knowledge that he’s not just a lovely human but a lovely human being, that the insides match the outsides.)
O.K., so flashing back to the flashback: I was 30 seconds behind Hemsworth entering the restaurant. I joined him at the bar, where we were to wait as our table was set up, only he wasn’t at the bar to be joined. A beat of panic, then I realized he must have ducked into the men’s room. Moments later, he emerged soaked. It looked as if he’d taken a bath in the sink (hopefully the sink). And, as it turned out, that’s exactly what he’d done. The day was hot, the temperature somewhere up in the high 90s, and he was cooking inside his leather jacket, necessary because of the motorcycle, a recent enthusiasm.
As one of the hostesses, her mask of bored vacancy back in place, showed us to our table, he told me about taking the riding test:
“My older brother, Luke, and I were talking about this the other day. He was laughing, said it was a classic example of how I prep for things. See, the test is its own thing. People told me that even if you’re a great rider, you can screw it up. What you have to do is drive around in a circle twice in a space that’s quite tight and narrow, zigzagging through cones without touching the ground. I drew the test out in chalk and tried to do it, and I was like, ‘This is pretty hard, I’m going to fail.’ And my friends who were watching said, ‘Well, no, you kind of get it.’ But I said, ‘I have to 100 percent get it because there are no second chances.’ So I spent the next two days just going in circles and zigzagging.”
I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you why this story is so disarming, but just in case: motorcycles are practically synonymous with outlaw macho up-yours defiance — hell on wheels. Even the trappings associated with the activity — denim and leather, shitkicker boots, skull-and-crossbones tattoos — are scary and freaky and S&M-y. Only Hemsworth utterly subverts the bad-boy implications by approaching riding in such an earnest and painstaking way, half Boy Scout, half worrywart. (Imagine Marlon Brando’s Johnny Strabler making chalk outlines in preparation for a bike test. Imagine Marlon Brando’s Johnny Strabler taking a bike test at all.) He’s not just admitting to turning the rebel yell into a Mother, May I?, but, and by extension, to supreme uncoolness (a sign, of course, of supreme coolness). How could I be other than totally disarmed?
We sat down at our table, with the el primo, knockout spectacular view, which I really was too preoccupied to appreciate. We skimmed (our menus). We fiddled (with our devices — me, tape recorder; him, phone). We small-talked and small-listened — anything to avoid getting started. We got started.
Hemsworth was raised in Melbourne, with the occasional foray into the Outback, his dad working in child-protective services most of the time, but other times mixing it up with cattle, making buffalo wish they’d never been born, popping wheelies on motorbikes — being a cross between a daredevil and a cowboy, basically, a true-life Crocodile Dundee. His mom was an English teacher. He’s the middle of three boys, all of whom are actors, including younger brother Liam. Says Hemsworth, “Luke started acting. I followed his path, and then Liam followed mine. We’re lucky. We’re all there to help each other, give each other perspective, give each other the right amount of slapping as well.”
At 18, with little formal training, Hemsworth landed a role on Home and Away, the long-running Australian soap and Hollywood farm team. (Among the alumni: Heath Ledger, Guy Pearce, Isla Fisher, and Naomi Watts.) For three and a half years, he played the troubled — but sexy! — Kim Hyde, who either had a death wish or death had a wish for him. (Kim survived a fire, two plane crashes — well, one plane crash, one helicopter crash — a cyclone, and an accidental Ecstasy overdose.) It was an earn-as-you-learn-type situation. The show was his acting school. And at this acting school he took Fame 101. (“It was a great place to get caught up in that sort of thing [i.e., teen-idol-dom] because no one really gave a shit, because it was just a soap opera and cell-phone cameras weren’t as popular.”)
In 2007, Hemsworth headed for L.A. and a chance at the big time. Almost immediately he was cast as George Kirk, the man who taught — or would have taught had he not played a game of starship chicken, and lost — Captain Kirk how to throw a baseball, tie a tie, put on a condom, the whole father-son rigmarole, in J. J. Abrams’s reboot of Star Trek (2009). It was a promising start, only it proved to be a false one. Says Hemsworth, “There were eight months where just everything stopped. I got more and more anxious. I was about to pack it in. I had an audition before Christmas, and as I got on the plane, I thought, I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m sick of caring.” Now, eight months isn’t exactly forever. And on the S.N.L. commercial, Hemsworth kidded the idea that he’d ever really struggled or dues-paid: “It didn’t happen overnight for me. I bounced around Hollywood for days.”
But eight months isn’t no time either, especially when you’re a fretter by nature. Relief came in the form of Joss Whedon, who would discover Hemsworth — already kind of sort of discovered twice — once and for all. Whedon, along with Drew Goddard, cast Hemsworth in the movie he had auditioned for pre-boarding, The Cabin in the Woods (directed by Goddard, produced by Whedon, written by both), a piece of work as nasty as it was nifty, a riff on the schlocky gore-fest horror torture-porn genre (oh, that genre). Says Whedon, “In Chris’s first close-up, Drew and I turned to each other and said, ‘Oh my God, he’s a movie star.’ ”
Not yet, but soon. Hemsworth on how it happened:
“I had an audition with Ken [Branagh, for Thor] that didn’t go very well. I remember walking out thinking, Oh well, there goes that opportunity. Then one day Joss and Drew were reading the trades, and on the front was the final four for Thor. And they pointed to Liam and said, ‘Hey, is that your brother?’ And I said, ‘Yeah.’ And they said, ‘Why the hell aren’t you in the mix?’ And I said, ‘I didn’t get a callback.’ And they were like, ‘This is crazy.’ And I was like, ‘If one of us gets it, that’s cool.’ And they were like, ‘No way. That should be you.’ And when casting opened back up, Joss called Ken and said, ‘Give Chris another shot.’ ”
Branagh did, and the rest is Hollywood history or, I guess, Norse mythology. (Three fun facts. One: The Cabin in the Woods was released in 2012 but filmed in 2009, and it wasn’t until 2010 that Whedon was hired to write and direct The Avengers. Says Hemsworth, “A year after Cabin I’m on the set of Thor and Joss comes walking in, and I’m like, What are you doing here? And he was like, Oh, I’m interviewing with the Marvel guys.” So the former writer-producer was auditioning to — fingers crossed — direct the very star he helped make. Pretty cute, right? Like A Star Is Born without the sexual tension or the bummer ending. Two: when Whedon first clapped eyes on Hemsworth, he immediately thought, Captain America. “So, yeah,” says Whedon, “I did think superhero, just, ah, slightly physically smaller superhero.” Three: a short time after losing out to his big brother, Liam would win a role in a dinky little low-budget, under-the-radar, straight-to-DVD project you’ve probably never heard of called The Hunger Games. Says Hemsworth with a laugh, “Yeah, Liam’s doing all right.”)
Even if movies centering on guys in billowy capes with do-gooder hippie notions about saving the world don’t make it for you, you’ve got to admit, Hemsworth’s good as Thor. Looks-wise, he obviously nails it (from the S.N.L. commercial: “At my [Thor] audition, they said, Umm, we’re looking for a Thor-type, not actual Thor”), though he did have to bulk up considerably, protein-scarfing and gym-bunnying until he’d packed on 20 pounds of lean muscle. He’s poetic in the fighting scenes. He’s prosaic — downright monosyllabic, in fact — in the talking scenes. And he never seems to take himself too seriously. He and Natalie Portman, who plays astrophysicist and love interest Jane Foster, are like an updated version of Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan in the Tarzan movies: he grunts; she gets the message.
Hemsworth appears relaxed in the role, only he wasn’t — the opposite. He felt the pressure. And I certainly understand why. The Marvel movies are, almost without exception, all-star affairs, featuring the heavenly-body likes of Scarlett Johansson, Robert Downey Jr., Mark Ruffalo, Samuel L. Jackson, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jeremy Renner, Robert Redford, Anthony Hopkins, et al. The movies, based, of course, on the comic books, seem maybe a little bit like kid stuff. But they offer massive exposure and an even more massive paycheck. Consequently, it’s worth these actors’ while to pretend that Halloween came a little early that year and put on a costume, try not to think about appearances they’re contractually obligated to make at the next Comic-Con. These actors, though, are established, secure (if anyone in Hollywood is ever really secure). They have track records and fan bases, sometimes an Oscar. If their movie or spin-off doesn’t net the studio a profit with a scary number of zeros in it, their careers aren’t necessarily in the toilet. But for Hemsworth, the only one of “earth’s mightiest heroes” who is — or, rather, was — a comparative nobody, the experience was far more fraught. “When something costs $150 million and it doesn’t work, it’s your face, it’s your fault,” he explains. “And the character has fans. Are they still a fan or did you just make them never want to read the comic again?”
O.K., I’d like to take a detour now from Hemsworth’s Road to Success. Actually, I’d like to bag the rest of the trip altogether. (This, after all, is a feature, not an American Express commercial.) We’ve brought him to the cusp of riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams, and that’s far enough. Let’s talk instead about the kind of actor he is.
To me, Hemsworth’s a throwback, much more in the tradition of a Cary Grant or a Gary Cooper, actors who were products of studios not drama schools, actors who were elegant and immaculate and silky smooth, actors who were performers, there to bring the audience pleasure, than he is in the tradition of a Marlon Brando or a James Dean, the subsequent generation of actors, actors who mumbled and shuffled and picked and scratched, actors whose lack of polish wasn’t just their aim but their point—their declaration—actors who were artists, there to express their inner beings. Yet the influence of Brando and Dean has been so powerful it virtually wiped out what came before. Sure, Hemsworth does that insane De Niro (also Method-trained) thing where he gains and loses tremendous amounts of weight for a role in frighteningly brief periods of time. But there’s little ambivalence in him. Ron Howard on Hemsworth’s audition tape for Rush (2013):
“He’d made it himself in his hotel room when he was shooting one of the Avengers movies. He was huge. There’s no way he could even fit in the car [the part was real-life racecar driver James Hunt]. But at the end, in his Aussie voice, he said, ‘And don’t worry. I’ll be whatever size Hunt needs to be.’ At that moment, I knew we had our guy.”
So Hemsworth wants to work, is eager. He doesn’t play the tortured artiste. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t, in his own way, tortured (no chance a person who holds himself to such exacting standards is short on demons) or an artiste. He makes it all look easy, though, because that’s his aim and point and declaration — no sweat, nothing to it, Gary Cooper, super duper.
Hemsworth appears to work from the outside in. His body is always in character: as Thor, he moves like a heavyweight who’s light on his feet; as the Huntsman, in Snow White and the Huntsman, he moves with a swashbuckler’s authoritative grace; and as the hacker in Michael Mann’s Blackhat, he practically doesn’t move at all, is, for large portions of the film, utterly still except for his fingers, agile and precise and flying across the keyboard, and for his eyes, darty with panic.
It’s no surprise then that Ron Howard cast him as the lead in this month’s In the Heart of the Sea, based on Nathaniel Philbrick’s National Book Award-winning account of the whaleship Essex, the sinking of which would inspire Moby-Dick. The movie is a lot of things, including a story of Man vs. Nature (really, it’s no contest, Nature kicks the shit out of Man, having had it up to here with Man and Man’s antics) — says Howard, “When we were making it, I told everybody, This isn’t Jaws, think more King Kong” — but mostly it’s an old-fashioned adventure picture, Hemsworth’s role as first mate Owen Chase requiring a frank un-ironic heroism, which so few actors can pull off these days.
In person, Hemsworth is sunny, laid-back, polite, without pretense. He’s part of an industry that’s, in his words, “set up to turn you into a complete narcissist.” Not that he’s going to let it. He has three children with wife Elsa Pataky: daughter India Rose, three, and twin sons Tristan and Sasha, one. They help combat the narcissism. Hemsworth recently moved his family from Malibu to Australia’s Byron Bay to shake the L.A. paparazzi, but also to shake L.A. generally. The city’s a company town and can mess with your head without even trying. I’d looked out the window of my Sunset Strip hotel that morning. It was billboards as far as the eye could see, all of them hawking a movie or a series. Says Hemsworth, “You just kind of lose touch with reality a bit here. You drive down the street and you’re constantly reminded of everything you’re either involved in or not involved in. It’s exhausting.”
MOVIE STAR QUA MOVIE STAR
So Hemsworth’s a model of decency and modesty and good humor in a context in which those virtues barely stand a chance. But — and I hate even to suggest it, curse my forked tongue, etc. — could these very virtues be what are holding him back? Which is another way of asking, Is Chris Hemsworth really a movie star? The answer to the question is, on the one hand: Hell yeah, he’s a movie star! He’s part of three highly profitable franchises; works with top-of-the-A-List A-List directors; was People’s 2014 Sexiest Man Alive; a host with the most on S.N.L. So all the major boxes are checked.
But, on the other hand: Not so fast. Maybe it isn’t as simple as checked boxes.
Let’s talk, for a minute, about Rush, the movie Hemsworth was auditioning for in that hotel room. It may be his best. Certainly James Hunt, the 1970s Formula One driver with all the right moves, is his best role. Rush is a love story disguised as a hate story, the central relationship between a pair of rivals who regard each other with the maniacal intensity of soul mates. James Hunt vs. Niki Lauda — beauty vs. beast, hot vs. cool, id vs. super-ego.
There’s a twist, though: Hunt may have the flashy looks and babes and lifestyle. Hunt, however, is not the flashy part. Lauda, who’s ugly and knows it, who’s unlikable and knows it, is the character who captures the director’s imagination. And the actor who played him, Daniel Brühl, captured the awards. Yet what Hemsworth did is, arguably, even more difficult: he makes an unsympathetic guy sympathetic. (Hunt’s got it all, so why should he get the audience’s sympathy as well?) Hemsworth lets you see the sweetness beneath Hunt’s macho posturing, and the melancholy. And, yes, Hunt’s a stud, bedding miniskirted cuties singly and in pairs, but he’s every bit as much a gentleman. You just know he wants the girls to have a good time too! And same as Hemsworth’s Hunt is a generous lover, Hemsworth is a generous actor. He serves his co-star and hits his marks and never camera-hogs.
The empathy issue was a major one for Hemsworth: “Ron and Peter [Morgan, the screenwriter] and I tried to thread throughout the idea that Hunt’s behavior is fueled by adrenaline and fear and insecurity. And then the one scene that I think really was a tipping point in our favor to making him redeemable — and it wasn’t in the original script — was when he punched the reporter.” The punch — multiple punches, actually — came after said reporter, in wildly dickish fashion, asked a nearly-burned-alive Lauda how his wife could stand looking at him. For me, it was the worst scene in the movie — a blatant attempt to manipulate the audience, shove it onto Hunt’s side. But Hemsworth was gung-ho. Here’s what that tells me: that he isn’t yet fully in control of his persona, and that he doesn’t yet trust his rapport with the audience. (You play a villain or an asshole and the audience loves you anyway? You’re a star.)
Which brings me back to Hemsworth’s decency, modesty, and good humor being a hindrance. If he were more self-obsessed, more self-adoring, more self-whatever, he’d likely be a shrewder calculator of his own power, and would know how far the viewer was willing to go with him. (Answer: far.) Besides, for a movie star to truly earn the title, he or she has to impose his or her personality on a film, become a phenomenon: Tom Cruise as the fighter pilot with the bulletproof grin in Top Gun; Julia Roberts as the whore you can take home to Mom in Pretty Woman; Brad Pitt as the drifter who drifted off with not only sweet, love-struck Geena Davis’s cash (a villain and an asshole) but the movie in Thelma & Louise. Channing Tatum had his star turn when he gyrated his red-thonged pelvis to Ginuwine’s “Pony” for fun and profit in the semi-autobiographical Magic Mike (2012). Hemsworth, though, hasn’t yet had his.
A possibly to-the-point aside: the one moment in our three-hour conversation that Hemsworth’s voice took on a wistful note was when Jennifer Lawrence’s name came up. He was talking about how nutzoid the paparazzi can get, quickly adding, “But I’m not complaining!,” a sentence he uttered so often it became a kind of refrain. Then he laughed. “What was it that Jennifer Lawrence said? ‘I know everyone says you’re not supposed to complain about the paparazzi. Well, I don’t give a shit. I’m fucking complaining!’ ” He cut off his laugh to sigh. “But she can get away with that.”
He’s right. She can. Why? Well, for one thing, Lawrence is a beyond-dispute movie star: a franchise that’s hers all hers, plus an Academy Award. She’s more than that, though. While movie star is still the most desirable kind of famous, it’s no longer the most famous kind of famous. The most famous kind of famous is what I think of as personality famous. People who are famous for, above all else, being themselves; people who either don’t grasp or ignore the distinction between public life and private; people who are reality stars no matter if they’re another type of star as well. Here’s a list, partial, of the personality famous: Kim Kardashian; Caitlyn Jenner — actually, pretty much the entire Kardashian-Jenner clan; Miley Cyrus (Liam’s ex-fiancée); Justin Bieber; Gigi Hadid; Teen Moms with sex tapes and Housewives who are Real; Kanye, though I suppose he falls under the rubric of Kardashian now; the cast of Jersey Shore; Taylor Swift.
Lawrence’s name is also on the list, and here’s why: She doesn’t play the game. Isn’t forever trying to prove herself deserving of her success. Doesn’t come on humble or grateful. On the contrary, she gets pissy, has moods, loses her temper. Acts naturally, in other words.
I’d like to add this too: while Lawrence isn’t the only genuine talent on the list — the list is mostly incandescent mediocrities, but not all — she is, however, the only movie star. And, really, she should come with a do-not-try-this-at-home warning label because she’s pulling off something that shouldn’t be pull-offable. (More on this shortly.)
End of aside.
Back now to on-the-other-hand. Except not. Forget on-the-other-hand because on-the-one-hand is right: Hell yeah, Hemsworth’s a movie star! If he hasn’t fully imposed himself yet, it’s because he’s been too busy establishing himself. And he appears to be using his superhero powers for good: “Being part of a franchise like The Avengers is the dream scenario. I’ve got this thing that’s going to keep me relevant, and I can still explore other things in between, do a few films no one cares about.” The “other things” include the new Ghostbusters, in which he’s the token dude in an all-dudette cast. Says co-star Kristen Wiig, “Chris is so naturally funny. He was a joy to look at — I mean, work with, work with!” (Incidentally, Vacation, which wasn’t one, which was an utter grind, except for Hemsworth, who had a cameo that was as impressive as the prosthetic penis he wore, i.e. very, very impressive.) And then there’s the adaptation of Steve Earle’s novel about Hank Williams’s dope doctor, in which he’s set not just to act but to produce.
In any case, Hemsworth’s managing to establish himself as a star is plenty remarkable, since it’s harder to become one now more than ever thanks to the iPhone and social media and the 24-hour news cycle. A star is, by its very nature, a remote entity, beautiful and inhuman, to be gazed upon but never touched or fathomed. Only these days, stars are all too human and fathomable — not to mention accessible. Getting caught by TMZ relieving yourself in a mop bucket as you exit a nightclub might not cost you Twitter followers, but it definitely does a number on your aura, your mystery, your iconographic power. (See what I mean about Lawrence and pulling off the un-pull-offable?)
So maybe Hemsworth, who for all his friendliness has a reserve about him, an air of privacy that does not invite intrusion, figured it right. Keep your distance, physical (move as far away from Hollywood as possible, preferably to another continent) and emotional (politeness can, in a pinch, be used as a barrier). And in a few years, you’ll be the only star that hasn’t fallen, will have the heavens all to yourself.
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