Peyton Bradley leans back in his seat, reflecting on my question. His dressed-down look of t-shirt, jeans and converse combo; rolled cigarette resting behind one ear; uncombed shaggy mop of hair and a three-day growth of stubble on his face do little to offset the striking handsomeness that has made him a pin-up for young (and some not so young) girls everywhere. This “pretty boy” badge may change, however, as his latest film sees him tackle the role of an AIDS victim, in preparation for which saw him shed so much weight he ended up hospitalised.
He scratches his half-beard before answering in that Brando-esque mumble of his.
“I’ve always seen myself as more of a character actor trapped in a leading man’s body.”
I nod. Realising the taciturn iconoclast is done elaborating, I continue.
“And in terms of research….”
I stop mid-question, in horror. He reaches behind his ears and slowly peels away the layer of skin that once was his face. Behind the tendons and blood and viscera, I see the grinning, obscene visage of Luis Guzman.
I try to scream. No sound comes out.
All is lost.