Everyone Wants a Piece of Pedro Pascal

To his friends and family, he is Pepelo, Pipi, Pedders, and Peds. Years ago, on a movie set, someone started calling him Pepsi, which he loved. Fans on the internet famously refer to him as Daddy or Zaddy, meaning he’s a handsome, stylish older man they can imagine dominating them in a way they would not object to. In a 2022 video for Vanity Fair, part of the magazine’s Lie Detector series, he laughed off the nickname. “Daddy is a state of mind,” he said. “I’m your daddy.” He was being playful, but his eye contact with the camera was so transfixing that some observers only heard the second sentence of that statement. Bella Ramsey—his young costar on The Last of Us, the show that truly catapulted him to stardom—disliked the “daddy” label the minute it was affixed to their friend: “I felt worried for him. I want to protect him from that whole joke of becoming the internet’s daddy. I was like, ‘I don’t want everyone to refer to you as that and see you as that. You’re so much more.’” Ramsay calls him Pedge.

For simplicity’s sake, I am going to call him Pedro Pascal.

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica. At night he’d return from whatever restaurant or bar job he hadn’t yet been fired from to the apartment in Brooklyn he couldn’t afford. However depressing his life, his pit-bull-mix rescue, Gretta, would meet him excitedly at the door. Gretta’s silhouette was intimidating enough that Pascal could walk her at 3 a.m. to deposit his crumpled wad of tips into a Chase ATM without fear. “She saved my life, that dog, because she gave me someone to go home to,” Pascal says, searching through the Gretta album on his phone to show me pictures.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

So Balmaceda would lend him $40 to make it through the weekend when he stopped by her office. Friends bought him groceries and took him to dinner. Neighbors helped take care of Gretta. His close friend Sarah Paulson gave him her per diem money from acting gigs and let him use her sister’s car.

“Basically, everybody took care of me, well into my 30s,” he says. “I had angels around me the whole time.”

Today is Pascal’s first day off in ages. Last week he was in Tokyo at the semiannual Star Wars Celebration, promoting next summer’s release of Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu. He recently completed The Fantastic Four: First Steps and, in the morning, goes into production on the new Avengers: Doomsday. Besides the Fantastic Four reboot, he’s in two other summer movies showing off interesting new angles—playing the ultimate bachelor in Celine Song’s romance Materialists and a small-town mayor in Ari Aster’s American nightmare Eddington. Meanwhile, on the day we meet, the internet is still soggy with the grief of The Last of Us fans processing the fate of Pascal’s character, Joel, a good, broken man with the saddest eyes in the world.

The Fantastic Four’s Vanessa Kirby—who plays Sue Storm to Pascal’s stretchy genius, Reed Richards—tells me that her friend’s allure is “his immense vulnerability”: “He doesn’t have much armor, so he shows himself to you straight away, and you trust that person because he’s revealing himself to you in this very brave way.” Spike Jonze, who directed Pascal in an exuberant Apple ad that showcases the actor’s joyful dance skills, has a unified field theory about why so many people are connecting with the 50-year-old actor who struggled to get hired for decades: “I think that he’s what we want in masculinity.” It’s not just about how rugged and alive Pascal is onscreen. It’s also his cheeky fun with fashion—chic black shorts and lipstick-red Valentino to the Met Gala in 2023, Saint Laurent thigh-high boots to the Last of Us season-two premiere. It’s how he bopped to Devo at the SNL50 concert. It’s how he publicly celebrated his younger sister, Lux Pascal, when she came out as transgender in 2021 and remains a passionate advocate of the community.

Just how smitten is the world with this actor? While hosting the Critics Choice Awards, Chelsea Handler cited 2023 as “the year everyone became horny for Pedro Pascal.” A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.”

“Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

When I first meet Pascal, it’s in the lobby of his swanky hotel. I go in for a handshake, and he wraps me in a hug instead. On our way outside we pass a bar, and he offers to make me a cocktail, then whisks me out the front door into a waiting black BMW. “Baby, I’m taking you on a date!” he says.

Pascal is happiest and most comfortable when the people around him are happy and comfortable, and because he is naturally so curious and warm, there’s a sense of immediate safety with him. You’re grateful to be in his light.

As we’re getting in the car, Pascal mentions his mother: He was 24 when she died by suicide. My own mother died by suicide when I was 18, a fact I wasn’t sure would be comfortable or appropriate to share. But then Pascal mentions that his mother got her PhD at San Antonio’s Trinity University, where I was a college freshman when my mother died. The coincidence is so uncanny that I find myself spilling. Pascal immediately takes my hand. “Whether we like it or not, we’re bonded,” he says.

We sit down at a Palestinian restaurant in Notting Hill. Pascal says he picked the restaurant because the last time he was here he admired the booth and the afternoon light, and thought it would be fun for us to share small plates of food. But he’s posted more than once on Instagram about what’s unfolding in Gaza, so I suspect he’s also making a statement of support by doing an interview here. He removes his leather jacket and his green sweatshirt, stripping down to a simple white T-shirt, and lays his thick-frame glasses on the table.

Pascal turned 50 in April, a milestone he approached with irritation and dread. He cites the movie Another Woman, which made an enormous impression on him when he saw it as a porous 13-year-old. In it, Gena Rowlands delivers a bleak report on the emotional wind tunnel of finding herself in her 50s.

“Stepping into my 40s felt adult and empowered,” Pascal says. “Fifty felt more vulnerable—much more vulnerable.” Even when he’s on top of the world? “More so, more so. What a silly thing for a 50-year-old man—to have all this attention! This is such shadow-voice shit, you know what I mean?”

So here we are, two motherless 50-year-olds drinking tequila at lunch.

“Dare I say, ‘To 50,’ ” I say, raising my drink.

Pascal’s face is so open and so game. He leans over the table and gives my glass a merry clink. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says. And off we go.

He was nine months old when his parents fled Chile to escape General Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship and eventually settled in San Antonio. Pascal’s mother was a 22-year-old political refugee, with two children, studying child psychology. (“So, yeah, I became kind of a guinea pig,” says Pascal.) On days when she didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’”

Pascal’s preferred home base in life is the fourth row of a movie theater. He remembers a family film night dedicated to Steven Spielberg’s The Color Purple. He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside. For the rest of fifth grade, he carried a copy of Alice Walker’s novel around like it was the Bible.

If his parents recognized the artistic sensitivities of their son, it didn’t affect their expectations. “Being immigrant parents, they were always kind of like, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, as long as you go to a good college,’” says Balmaceda with a laugh. She describes their father, a fertility doctor, as very demanding. “You had to have great grades, great manners, great taste, always.”

In middle school, Pascal’s family relocated to a wealthy and conservative Orange County, California, enclave, where “all the palm trees are the same height.” He still can’t stomach going back to visit: Middle school was a horror. He was bullied “for being a weird, sensitive kid. For being an attention-hungry kid. For being in love with the movies and theater and art.” He remembers the movie Gorillas in the Mist being a lifeline. He saw it again and again in the theater, patched back together by Sigourney Weaver’s performance and Maurice Jarre’s dreamlike score.

Pascal honestly doesn’t know if he would’ve survived the bullying and abuse if his mother hadn’t pulled him out of his local school system and found him a school for the arts. He got his license and the keys to Verónica’s Volvo. He and his new best friend, Grace, would drive into LA and dance their faces off at raves. Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

Pascal moved to New York City to study acting at NYU, where he immediately fell into a crowd of former LaGuardia High School performing arts students that included Paulson. “No one was more fun,” she tells me. “But he was also…sad. There’s a well of pain that lives right behind his eyes that he’s never tried to hide from, and I think it’s what makes him so translucent as an actor. It was just magnetic for me as a young person and still is today.”

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

When we first ordered, Pascal told our server he was trying to stay off bread because—well, because he’s an actor. It’s still hard to accept that he can’t order Shake Shack every night at 10 p.m. for dinner. The server lays a plate stacked with warm pita on the table. “Hey, you put the bread right in front of me!” he teases. He takes a big forkful of Nabulsi cheese. He won’t give up cheese. At night he dreams about Gorgonzola. Pascal asks me about where I live. What my 16-year-old loved about the movie Sinners, which he adored. What I’m reading. The circumstances of my mother’s death.

Pascal was 24 and living in Los Angeles when he got the phone call about his own mom. He took the first flight to Santiago. His parents had returned in 1995 with his younger brother, Nicolás, and Lux. After the services for his mother, Pascal returned a hollowed man to pilot season, stupefied that he’d once considered landing a role in a new Dark Angel series of any consequence. “You think not getting a job can break me? You can’t break me, I’m already broken.”

Six months after his mother’s death, Pascal agreed to foster a puppy to help out a friend. The first night in his apartment, the dog jumped into bed with him. Through the thin walls, Pascal could hear his neighbors watching the indie movie High Art. He listened to the scene of Ally Sheedy’s character panicking over her overdosing girlfriend, played by Patricia Clarkson, and felt the warmth of this creature next to him. He knew he was going to keep this puppy and name her after a fictional German heroin addict.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers. After 9/11, he moved to Red Hook with Gretta. Of his nursing-school plan B, he now insists he would’ve made a terrible nurse: “I’d be a selective nurse, like I was as a waiter. I’d fall in love with some patients and hate others. And that poor patient that I hated!”

The LAByrinth Theater Company, where he started to write and direct, became an artistic lifeline. He broke into regional theater, shipping off to Oregon or Washington, DC, or Boston or Cape Cod or Lowell, Massachusetts. In 2013, Paulson, chief among the “angels” looking out for him, passed his audition tape for Game of Thrones along to her best friend Amanda Peet, whose husband, David Benioff, co-ran the show. And a star was born. Pascal’s blisteringly charismatic turn as Oberyn Martell led him to three seasons on the DEA drama Narcos. Which led him to The Last of Us and beyond.

Pascal’s beloved dog was at his side right up until that big break in Game of Thrones, when she died of old age. “I think about how poor I was when I had Gretta,” Pascal says. “I think about when I had double shifts and I couldn’t find anybody to let her out and we were living in this shithole apartment in Red Hook, and I think about the bougie life she would be leading with me now as opposed to then and I grieve, I really do.”

He chokes back a sob, then laughs at himself for being once more overcome.

“You’ve been making me cry since we fucking started talking!” he tells me, shaking his fist in mock anger. “Don’t let me order a third drink.”

Pascal wants to make sure I get dessert and suggests we walk around the block looking for something sweet. But he’s also due at Robert Downey Jr.’s house, which is a 45-minute drive away, for an Avengers cast “homework” day, and then he has evening theater plans, so he’s nervous about the time and trying not to show it. He is a people pleaser. He’s working on it, he tells me. I tell him I can go without dessert and suggest that he let me tag along on the ride to Downey’s house so we can finish our conversation. His relief is enormous.

As we wait for the check, we talk about some of the realities of fame. For instance, the internet’s real-time dissection of his coffee order, his vacation reading, and—since, as Handler said, people of every kind are horny for him—why he doesn’t talk about his own personal life in the press. “I always feel perplexed when I’m identified in whatever form of media as a ‘highly private person,’ because that’s the opposite of me,” he says. “I’m very unprivate in my private life. I just know that personal relationships are such a complex thing to navigate even without having this enormous lens on them.” As for having kids, Pascal tells me that he hasn’t longed to do it, except in a very particular way: “I’ve had dreams of taking my kids to the movies the way my parents took me. So I guess I want a shortcut to an interesting human being who is my child who will go see something that I want to see.”

On Instagram, Pascal is forthright about his progressive values, posting about his horror over political headlines as well as sending love to his siblings and championing his and others’ projects. The week before our meeting, the UK Supreme Court has released a landmark anti-trans ruling limiting the legal definition of a woman to the basis of biological sex. J.K. Rowling, who has largely funded the UK’s war on the trans community, celebrated the ruling in a cruelly glib Instagram post. Pascal, ferociously protective of his baby sister, Lux, called out Rowling’s rotten glee on Instagram as “heinous LOSER behavior.”

Some tried to frame it as a man trying to bully a woman into silence. “But it is heinous loser behavior,” Balmaceda says. “And he said that as the older brother to someone saying that our little sister doesn’t exist.” As it grew into a larger story, Pascal felt briefly like “that kid that got sent to the principal’s office a lot for behavioral issues in public schools in Texas feeling scared and thinking, What’d I do?” But something else worried him more. “The one thing that I would say I agonized over a little bit was just, ‘Am I helping? Am I fucking helping?’ It’s a situation that deserves the utmost elegance so that something can actually happen, and people will actually be protected. Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

In an epic bad-faith argument, some Rowling defenders tried to turn a viral clip of Pascal taking Kirby’s hand at last year’s Fantastic Four panel at Comic-Con into evidence that he’s presumptuous with women. “What happened is we were both incredibly nervous going out in front of thousands of people who love this comic,” says Kirby. “He wanted me to know that we were in this together, and I found it a lovely gesture and was very glad to squeeze his hand back.”

In the movie, the superpower couple is married with a baby en route. Pascal hasn’t seen the finished movie yet but says, “I’m getting an inkling of excitement because it seems to reflect what our common goal was, and what we want to share, which is all of our fucking hearts on a platter within this genre. You just never know if people are going to be disgusted by your heart or not.” He admits that entering the Marvel universe has not been without jitters: “I’m more aware of disgruntlement around my casting than anything I’ve ever done. ‘He’s too old. He’s not right. He needs to shave.’” Pascal takes succor from his new Avenger friend Downey: “He’s just so immediately generous and inviting that you feel like you can be afraid, you can be hungry, you can be ambivalent.” And Downey speaks for many of us when he tells me, “Pascal’s slow trajectory to becoming a household name who is on a wildly hot streak kind of reaffirms my faith in our industry.”

On our way out of the restaurant, I ask Pascal what today’s Avengers “homework day” will entail.

“Very good question,” he says, coyly.

“Which of the Avengers will be there?”

“Good question.”

“And now you’re an Avenger?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Pascal says, laughing. “Let’s go back to talking about death and suicide again and not the Avengers!”

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.”

So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

On February 4, 2023, the anniversary of his mother’s passing, Pascal hosted Saturday Night Live for the first time. It was a triumph. In his monologue, he choked up while honoring his parents for their courage fleeing Chile when he was a baby. Musical guest Coldplay’s Chris Martin dedicated “Fix You” to Pascal and Verónica. Pascal’s childhood hero Steven Spielberg watched the show from the wings and, a month later at the Oscars, would congratulate him on a stellar job. Paulson, who’d flown in that morning to appear as the Mother to Pascal’s Daddy in a sketch, stayed with him at the after-party until the sun came up.

“It was just a night we didn’t want to end,” she says. “If there had been a camera on me when it was happening—and there’d been a slow push in—it would’ve shown me watching his life begin. Because he was so, so present, and having this wild time. And he had no idea that it was going so well, and with the timing of his mother and this moment in his career, it was like a rebirth.”

Pascal cries talking to me about it: “I just felt like my mother was there. And—and I don’t know what else to say. It was a complete transformation of an anniversary.”

He also reclaimed his birthday this year. Two months after his mother died, Pascal tried celebrating his 25th birthday, but the whole night was horrible and sideways and wrong. Without making a conscious decision, he stopped acknowledging his birthday to any real extent. Friends over the years would try to cajole him into a night on the town, but the most he’d agree to was being taken out for a martini or “getting high and going to see How to Train Your Dragon.”

By the time he was 49, he felt like his body was starting to turn on him. He’d injured his back on the set of Gladiator II. Then he fell down some stairs at his dad’s house in Chile and dislocated his shoulder. When Handler called out his universal sex appeal at the Critics Choice Awards, he remembers with a wince, “I was in a sling, I was overweight, and when the camera cut to me, I didn’t think anything could be further from the truth.”

When Pascal started filming Materialists last spring, in which he woos Dakota Johnson’s matchmaker character, he was out of the sling but still couldn’t do a push-up or lift weights. “It was the oldest I’d ever felt in life,” he says. “It was the weakest I’d ever felt. It was such a scary, fraudulent thing to feel like I could play somebody who was the catch of Manhattan.” He seems genuinely relieved when I tell him how dashing he is in the movie—and what a natural romantic lead. “You think I’m hot in it? Thank God!” This was his first shot at a romance, and he’s curious about doing it again.

Pascal has only played a true lead once, in a 2003 stage production of Kenneth Lonergan’s Lobby Hero for a small theater in Cape Cod. What would it be like, he wonders, to carry a film like one of his favorite actors, Daniel Kaluuya, did in Get Out? “But again, stepping into it at my age, it’s hard for me to—” Pascal says, then breaks off. “I ask myself, Is that realistic?” He cringes. “I can’t believe how ageist my interview is going to be, but it’s what I’m living!”

Pascal needed to make peace with “crossing this bullshit milestone of 50,” so he decided to lean in headlong, planning a multiday celebration he compares to a wedding. On April 2 he hosted an intimate dinner for family and friends at a London restaurant whose martini he knew to be a winner. All three of his siblings were there, along with his father. Lux surprised him with a slideshow of pictures of Pascal and his friends and family over the years—even Gretta!—that finished to the song “Corazón de Melón.” Three separate times he tries to explain how moved he was by his sister’s gift without crying. “I’m not like this every day, I swear to God,” he says, laughing. “But when you feel seen like I did that night, you feel touched by magic.”

A couple nights later the celebration continued with a banger of a party at Stone Nest, the former Limelight club in London. Pascal hired Honey Dijon, a trans woman and divine Grammy-winning DJ and fashion icon. He wore a black nylon 4sdesigns overcoat over a Protect the Dolls T-shirt, and his friends spun him around the dance floor on their shoulders. His family was there. His high school bestie, Grace. Paulson and the LaGuardia gang from New York. His best friends from college who are now doctors, lawyers, and professors. The Fantastic Four cast and other actor friends. Paulson remembers looking around the adoring, eclectic crowd and thinking, “We were once teenage nutballs running around New York and now Tom Cruise is dancing at your party. What has happened to your life?”

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.”

There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

Pascal’s mother tried as best she could to know her son. She read To Kill a Mockingbird after seeing the profound effect it had on Pascal in grade school. She pored over For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf, which consumed Pascal after his high school English teacher read the Lady in Red monologue. She let her 17-year-old son skip school to see a pre-Broadway production of Angels in America. When Pascal came home awestruck—emotionally reorganized by what he’d seen—she bought herself a ticket so she could experience some of what her son felt.

Pascal has a tattoo of his mother’s signature on the inside of his right wrist. I have a tattoo in honor of my mother on the inside of my left. As a goodbye outside of Downey’s house, we touch our griefs against each other for a moment. Which is maybe what the movies, or literature, or theater allows us to do.

On New Year’s Eve, Pascal wrote down his wish for 2025: “Heal. For real.”

When I next speak with Pascal, he’s flush from an energizing weekend in Reykjavík, Iceland, where he met with the Canadian poet Anne Carson after being put in touch by the artistic director at The Shed theater in New York. Over Zoom, he says that they’re in early talks to collaborate on a piece she’s writing that he’d perform. The stage kept his dreams of being an artist alive for so long; he wants to go home to it. He’s not sure about his next film project: “See, it’s over!”

As for his literal home, Pascal rents a modest loft in Los Angeles. He’d tried owning a fancy house in the Hollywood Hills for a while. But his neighbors were awful, and the claustrophobic nature of the neighborhood made him feel lonely and depressed. When COVID hit, he looked up Airbnbs and found a listing for a back house near the water where he pictured taking walks and buying a bike. He didn’t expect to fall so in love with the airy little artist’s den, or the owners of the front property who’ve come to treat him like family. He’s kept it for five years now, even though there’s no real door to the bathroom, and it can feel a little like a storage unit since he travels so much.

When The Fantastic Four wrapped in London, he was able to return to LA for the briefest of spells. On his desk somewhere he’s got a framed print of that New Yorker cartoon, about everything riding on whether or not Pedro Pascal is really that nice. A dear friend whose mother owns a framing shop gave it to him as a gift, and her workmanship is why he kept it. I ask him whether the caption makes him nervous—this semiserious idea of us needing him to be as dear in real life as his public image. “I was just excited that I was a fucking illustration in The New Yorker!” he tells me with a laugh. “I lived in New York for 20 years! I have an instinct not to take it further than that because then I would get scared.”

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

PASCAL’S GROOMING, COCO ULLRICH; MANICURE, ABENA ROBINSON; TAILOR, BEN DUFORT; SET DESIGN, MAX BELLHOUSE. COVER MODELS’ GROOMING PRODUCTS BY SHAKEUP COSMETICS; MAKEUP PRODUCTS BY MAC. MODELS’ MAKEUP AND GROOMING BY LAISUM FUNG. MODEL CASTING BY ANITA BITTON. PRODUCED ON LOCATION BY THE PRODUCTION CLUB. POST PRODUCTION BY DIGITAL LIGHT. FOR DETAILS, GO TO VF.COM/CREDITS.