Deep in her house, Megan Fox and I are discussing human sacrifice. I tell her about an Aztec ritual practiced five hundred years ago in ancient Mexico during the feast of Toxcatl, when the Aztecs picked a perfect youth to live among them as a god.
Feature writers who place themselves in the story are, in general, lazy fame-whores who need reeducation.
What Marche does in this article is a worse crime than just "here's a description of how close I was to a famous person". (That's usually the extent of the sin of self-placement in a story: a resignation to be famous by association.) Instead he forces his own words onto his subject, making his psyche and false empathy the subject while Fox is relegated to supporting cast.
The article is about Marche: how he reacts to Fox's visage; how he romanticised Hollywood; how he revels in betraying his subject's trust by using her admitted solace in religion as a metaphor for addiction and downfall. He is a con-man and Fox is his patsy.
A lot has already been discussed about this piece but most criticise it for its beauty myth propagation. None discuss it for what it is: a love letter to a world so obsessed with the surface that someone like the author can make a living exploiting it.
This is not a story about a young woman overwhelmed by fame. It's the recording of a modern-day transaction exchanging integrity for fame, as if they cannot coexist.
The piece might have some anthropological use but will always lack journalistic merit.