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Details Mag Interview.

Here’s the interview that go with those gorgeous pics , there’s a video too.

Some of this interview is not for under 18. You’ve been warned .

Robert Pattinson On Life Beyond Twilight

COFFEE
It’s the unseasonably cold November of 2008 when I go to New York’s Bowery Hotel. There’s a young man sitting in the garden, wrapped in about nine black sweaters and wearing a wool hat, smoking cigarettes, sipping a latte the size of his head, and furiously making notes on a script in the bitter cold. I have read about teenage girls lighting themselves on fire in front of his hotel, but at the moment Robert Pattinson is warming his hands on a coffee cup.

Hello, I’m Jenny. I think I’m here so you can check me out.
“Okay. I’m Rob. Um . . . would you like some fries? With gravy?”

Allen Coulter, the director of Hollywoodland and a creative force behind The Sopranos, has sent me. He was thinking about doing this movie—it wasn’t quite there yet, but I should “come meet Rob.”

Rob. When he came to the United States, he slept on his agent’s sofa and then got a small part in a movie called Harry Potter and the Something of Something, which grossed nearly $900 million worldwide. And then he made another one, called Twilight, which grossed $385 million in theaters and almost another $200 million in U.S. DVD sales. Box-office riches, like so much of the female population of this planet, follow him from continent to continent, nursing a raging crush.

Coulter suggested I do some rewrite work on Remember Me (for the record, there is only one credited writer, Will Fetters), the first American release in which Rob will portray a mortal, nonmagical, carbon-based life form of the earthly realm—Salvador Dalí, whom he played in Little Ashes, surely doesn’t qualify. As Rob scribbles away on the script’s pages, it’s clear he is starting his own revision process.

Rob’s face is constantly busy—especially his kaleidoscopic eyes, which are continually rolling and dilating, because he is always thinking. Over the course of that latte, he contemplates Jimi Hendrix, French fries, girls, art, beer, his cousin the philosopher, girls, truth, God, his dog, girls, and whether this week’s stalker has followed him from L.A. I don’t think he could turn his brain off if he wanted to.

Despite the legion of fans trailing him from hotel to hotel, laying siege to each like the Roman army, he is neither fearful nor cocky—he’s hungry, curious, forever reaching intellectually. That may not sound like a big deal, but think of the context: Complete strangers want to fuck you, shoot you, be you, buy you, sell you, run their fingers through your hair, watch you have sex, hear you pee, eat chips with you, and kidnap you and stuff you in the trunk of their car. And you? You must know more, more, more about exotic tropical diseases.

Rob and I discover we share a mutual fascination with afflictions that maim and disfigure and disgust: He brings up cancrum oris, in which bacteria eat away at your face until you get kind of a window in the side of your head and the entire world sees your teeth; I mention cyclic vomiting syndrome, a condition in which you puke literally all the goddamn time; he delights in lymphatic filariasis, where parasitic worms burrow into your lymph nodes and can make your balls swell to the size of watermelons, forcing you to tote them around in a wheelbarrow.

We come up with a blockbuster hit movie, entitled Candiru Infestation, about a tiny fish that swims up your urethra and into your urinary tract and lodges in your cock with backward-facing umbrella spikes it shoots from its spine.

“Fucking brilliant! It could be like Finding Nemo!” says Rob. “And the little candiru is lost in the balls! Think of the soundtrack!”

BEER NO. 1
Fourteen months later we’re in London. New Moon, the second movie in the Twilight saga, has set box-office records for largest midnight opening and biggest opening-day gross. Remember Me, Rob’s young-man-in-crisis drama, has wrapped. He has 24 hours before he has to start rehearsals for Bel Ami, based on the Guy de Maupassant novel, in which he plays a bed-hopping social climber.

He is waiting to pick me up in the bar of my hotel. He has ordered himself a pint of beer and, remembering my beverage of choice, a Diet Coke for me. He has the lovely manners of the good son of a good mum.

He says he wants to take me to a particular restaurant nearby, “just a little out-of-the-way place.” So out of the way, it turns out, that after wandering around nearly all of Covent Garden, we can’t find it. He doesn’t seem too surprised, really. Of late he’s been getting lost a lot in his own hometown. But then it’s been a couple of years since he’s actually lived here, and London is confusing as hell anyway.

Considering alternatives, we peek into a crowded café full of the young and beautiful, but he recoils. A few minutes later, when we come to a tiny Mexican place, his hackles go up a bit. Hmm. I ask him whether, at this point, he’s able to sniff out crazed fans lurking under the tables.

“Yes. Sure. But last time I was here, the guacamole was bad.”

Rob has made no sartorial concessions to Britain’s ugliest winter weather in 30 years. A button-down, light Carhartt-like jacket, no gloves. He does have a hat, perhaps the same one he wore in New York. I’m swaddled like the Michelin Man and I’m fucking freezing. He’s cheery, unfazed, giggling away. It occurs to me that London seems to afford him a freedom he doesn’t have in New York or Los Angeles. And a London night with deserted, snow-piled streets, after an epic storm that paralyzed Heathrow and shut down the Eurostar trains, is like an unbridled romp while going commando.

Without trying, we arrive back where we started, in front of the Covent Garden Hotel. Across the street there’s a high-end sex-toy-and-bondage shop called Coco de Mer. I mention that I popped in there earlier (before the National Gallery, thank you), and I tell him about this insane S&M body-harness contraption they have that allows you to dress up like a horse and have a long tail.

“That’s so English. I want to do this entire interview wearing it, from an equine point of view,” he says, stomping the sidewalk with make-believe hooves. “Seriously. As an experiment in public perceptions. Is the place still open?”

More of the interview after the jump.

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Details Mag Pics !

Warning extra drool buckets needed !! I may just be dead after this post !

Pics by Norman Jean Roy

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