Mission: Impeccable. A Day With Doreen Elytis
By Jessica Wilder, Rolling Prim Magazine
It wasn’t enough for Doreen Elytis to simply dominate the glossies. Until recently, she was fashion’s unstoppable object; the billboard queen whose face defined the seasons. Then Mission: Impeccable detonated at the box office, upgrading her from Supermodel to the kind of celebrity who doesn’t just walk into a room, the room seems to curate itself around her.
Gaining access to that orbit, however, was a diplomatic nightmare. Her legion of invisible handlers negotiated the terms of our visit with the paranoid intensity of a Cold War summit. We received a rider that read less like an interview agreement and more like the Terms of Surrender. There were strict mandates regarding lighting (“ethereal or don’t bother”), tone (“worshipful, yet somehow grounded”), and a specific inquiry as to whether my presence might “disturb her aesthetic equilibrium.” My editor sighed with enough force to rattle the office windows.
But when you are chasing the cultural singularity, you get on the plane. You ignore the fact that her recent, messy split from tech-bro billionaire Axton Vale has launched a thousand conspiracy threads. You pack your bags for "Cerulean Township”, a rural village deep in the middle of absolutely nowhere where she is allegedly filming a mystery project and you go. Because it’s Doreen's world; we’re just living in the background.
But before we wade into the swamp of handlers, non-disclosure agreements, and the sheer gravitational distortion of Doreen’s current location, we need to rewind. We need to go back to the Mission: Impeccable press screening in a dimly lit theater where the world was still exactly as we knew it, if only for another ninety minutes.
The vibe in the press screening room was "aggressively unimpressed."
The seats were filled with the usual suspects: industry veterans lounging with the supreme confidence of people who had already written their reviews before the opening credits rolled. You can see it in the posture; slumped, bored, some couples even making out in the back row because, really, how good could a supermodel’s acting debut be? They were ready to witness a vanity project with a budget. They were expecting a train wreck in couture.
They didn’t know they were sitting in ground zero of a cultural reset.
While the rest of the room was busy rolling their eyes, Cinnamon Mistwood of The National Blab was the first to smell the smoke. Somewhere around the second act, right after Doreen defused a bomb using nothing but a bobby pin and a withering stare, Cinnamon leaned forward, the reflection of the screen dancing in her eyes.
"This," she spoke calm, but with the terrifying certainty of a metaverse columnist seeing the future, "is going to ruin us all. It’s perfect."
Naturally, this was immediately ruined by Sandor Wren.
Sandor is the type of traditionalist critic who quotes Tarkovsky at parties and believes cinema died the year color was invented. He was sitting next to Cinnamon, wearing sunglasses in a pitch-black theater because apparently, his vision is too sensitive for mediocrity.
"Style over substance," he scoffed, loud enough to drown out the Dolby surround sound. "It’s a perfume commercial with explosions. It will be forgotten by Tuesday."
They spent the rest of the film bickering; Mistwood vibrating with the thrill of a shifting zeitgeist, Wren insisting that spectacle is the enemy of art.
Cut to today: Sandor now writes 3,000-word essays on the "post-ironic brilliance" of Doreen’s performance, pretending that screening never happened. Cinnamon, to her credit, just keeps her "I Told You So" filed under 'Pending' for whenever she sees him.
What happened next wasn't a premiere; it was a regime change.
Historians of the metaverse will likely mark the release of Mission: Impeccable as the moment the line between "advertising" and "reality" finally dissolved. In the weeks leading up to the release, Doreen Elytis didn’t just trend; she became the atmosphere.
Her team launched the #BeImpeccable campaign, a hashtag that functioned less like a slogan and more like a command from a benevolent dictator. The premise was simple: post a selfie with your movie ticket and tag Doreen. The bait was irresistible: the chance to win the exact couture Doreen wore while roundhouse-kicking henchmen, all-expenses-paid teleports to luxury resorts, high-performance vehicles from Midnoot Cars Inc. and other luxurious and expensive gifts from brands Doreen’s campaigns made millions for the past year. Basically, they bribed the population with shiny objects, and the population said, "Thank you, may I have another?"
The participation was instant, exponential, and terrifyingly thorough. You couldn't scroll three inches without seeing a ticket selfie. Adeline Lake posing with her boyfriend in a theater lobby; Gregorian Chant doing... whatever that was on the red carpet; Lexxi Xhan looking dangerous in the foyer. It wasn't a fan club; it was a militia.
Then came the masterstroke: the strategic nuking of copyright law.
In a move that made intellectual property lawyers weep openly in their cubicles, the studio released the film’s IP as a "cultural open-source license." Suddenly, every influencer, every brand, and every aspiring model in the grid was legally permitted - nay, encouraged - to run their own Mission: Impeccable promo.
It was genius. Why pay for a marketing department when you can just let the entire world work for you for free?
Timelines were carpet-bombed with fan-made trailers, branded stunts, and poster variants. Subway stations, billboards, and magazine spreads were plastered with that black-and-red aesthetic until it felt less like a movie launch and more like infrastructure.
The result? Revenue that bypassed "blockbuster" and settled somewhere near "GDP of a subcontinent." The financial impact was so absurd that the Ahern Ledger Review, a publication usually reserved for boring people discussing interest rates, was forced to declare:
Quote“We are witnessing the industrialization of influence. Stardom is no longer an asset; it is a sovereign economy.”
The message was clear: Doreen Elytis wasn’t just a star anymore. She was a ticker symbol. Fandom had become currency, and Doreen was the central bank.
It is a warm and already humid morning when my photographer and I finally rattle into town. The journey here feels less like a commute and more like an endurance test; the nearest regional airstrip is a two-hour drive away, connected to civilization by a spine-shattering, pothole-riddled road that suggests this place doesn't just want to be isolated, it needs it.
Cerulean Township is a textural error in the landscape. It is a rural speck deep in teleport-over country; a place where the most thrilling local headline usually involves a stray cow or a new pie flavor at the diner. And yet, somehow, this rusting whistlestop has become the epicenter of the most expensive film production in the hemisphere.
But today, nothing is exploding. As we step out of the car, it’s eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if the entire world collectively hit “mute.” No stunt doubles are dangling from helicopters. No henchmen are being kicked through plate glass. The set is silent.
Why? Because Doreen Elytis has mandated a "Holistic Spiritual Alignment Day."
According to the call sheet, the cameras have been powered down because "electronics need inner peace." The actors and crew, hardened mercenaries of the industry who usually communicate in curse words and cigarette smoke, have been "encouraged" to journal about their character’s metaphysical motives. A handwritten sign taped to the craft services table offers a strict warning:
PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB THE CHAKRAS.
(Especially the gluten-free muffins.)
Everyone obliges. Of course they do. When the biggest star in the simulation says the vibes are off, you don't argue; you nod enthusiastically and pretend your third eye is dilating.
The scene is a masterclass in performative zen. Half the camera crew is slumped in "meditation poses" (napping), while the unmistakable scent of high-grade indica floats gently through the "sacred creative space." A pair of supporting actors have vanished behind a stack of soundproof baffles to contribute some rhythmic, breathy sound effects that are definitely not in the script. Meanwhile, the production designer is aggressively "centering himself" while furiously scrolling through panicked emails on a contraband phone.
Everyone here accepts two truths:
- Doreen Elytis demands a peaceful, spiritually hydrated set.
- A peaceful, spiritually hydrated set is physically impossible when you are burning fifty thousand dollars an hour.
Still, no one dares break the curated tranquility. I spot a gaffer adjusting a massive rose quartz crystal positioned precariously next to a high-voltage generator. "We’re grounding the energy flow," he whispers to me, deadpan. "Or maybe the power cables. Honestly, at this point, who can tell the difference?"
When Doreen Elytis finally manifests, she doesn't just walk; she glides, her hair perfectly tousled by a breeze that I am convinced is on the payroll. She is wearing a caramel crop top that reveals a set of abs that have never met a carbohydrate, and she looks at me with the warmth of a cult leader greeting a new recruit.
"You must be Rolling Prim!" she exclaims, pulling me into a hug before I can decide if handshakes are too corporate for a spiritual retreat. There is a soft jingle of crystals at her wrist; amethyst, quartz, and something that looks suspiciously like a diamond disguised as a healing stone.
She pulls back, gripping my shoulders, and scans my face with terrifying intensity. "Your aura is open," she declares. "Thank god. I was worried you’d bring tabloid energy."
Her team exhales in unison. I have passed the vibe check. An assistant with clipboard anxiety immediately materializes and presses a tiny glass vial into my hand. "Doreen blends this herself," she whispers, eyes wide. "It’s a chakra-clarifying tincture. One drop under the tongue if you feel any skepticism blocking your flow." I pocket it. It will go great with vodka later.
"Come," Doreen says, grabbing my arm. "You can’t understand the film until you meet the town’s emotional center."
I expect the director. Or perhaps the mayor. Instead, she leads me to a stuffed moose. He is standing near the tracks, a 1,200-pound ruminant whose antlers are currently adorned with actual pumpkins. The moose looks resigned. Doreen looks beatific.
"I nicknamed him Moussieur," she introduces him, resting a hand on his flank as if they are co-stars in a buddy cop movie. "He embodies the energy of Cerulean Township, so emotionally available." She tells me she pets him every morning "to realign their shared frequencies."
My photographer lifts his camera, and instantly, the calm shatters. Doreen’s PR team emerges from the foliage like wellness-trained ninjas. "No, no! Find the holistic angle!" screams one. "Mind the sweater crease, she’s manifesting symmetry!" yells another. "And please," begs a third, "Shoot the moose from the left! That’s his hero side!"
My photographer looks ready to cry, trying to frame a shot that includes a supermodel, a pumpkin-wearing moose, and "spiritual truth." Doreen, however, does not notice the chaos. She simply tilts her chin three degrees,a movement calibrated by a decade of Vogue covers, and gives the lens a look that says 'I am one with nature, and nature is wearing designer denim.'
The shutter clicks. The team collapses in relief. "Was that okay?" the photographer asks, sweating. Doreen flashes a dazzling, terrifyingly confident smile. She brushes an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve and shrugs.
"Well… of course it’s good," she says. "I’m in it."
After the Moose has been sufficiently spiritually honored, Doreen sweeps us toward the next mandatory stop on her curated journey of humility.
It is a trailer and it sits beneath the pines, a beige, corrugated rectangle that looks like it has survived three hurricanes and a divorce. The siding is dented. The door hangs with a weary slant. It is, objectively, the least glamorous object within a hundred-mile radius. It is the kind of vehicle you usually see being towed away by the authorities on reality television. Doreen stands in front of it, beaming with the pride of a monarch unveiling a new wing of the palace.
"This is where the real grounding happens," she announces, gesturing grandly at the rusted door handle. She leans in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "You wouldn’t believe the personal growth I’ve achieved in this square footage."
She goes on to explain the "harrowing" confusion that occurred during the filming of Mission: Impeccable. Apparently, when the producers first told her she’d be spending time in her trailer, Doreen was thrilled. "I thought, 'How sweet! They’re already cutting a promotional teaser before we’ve even shot the first scene!'" she laughs, a melodic trill that echoes through the woods. "Imagine my surprise when they led me to a vehicle. A home. On wheels. That I was expected to... occupy."
According to sources (her beleaguered PA), Doreen required three hours, a panic blanket, and a chilled glass of Sancerre to process the information. But eventually, she embraced the "rustic narrative."
"It brought me closer to the earth," she says now, digging the toe of her designer boot into the gravel for emphasis. "Closer to... people. Who... labor." Behind her, an assistant flinches so hard she nearly drops her clipboard.
But for this new movie, Doreen was ready. She didn't just accept the small space; she trained for it. "I hired a Spatial Energy Coach," she explains, ducking her head to enter the cramped doorway. "He taught me how to fold my aura. It’s a metaphysical technique for compressing your star power so you don’t blow out the windows. It’s like suitcase-packing, but for the soul."
We follow her inside. The interior is the size of a walk-in closet, but it has been aggressively gentrified. The smell of stale plywood has been vanquished by Diptyque candles. The tiny kitchenette table is a shrine to high-end skincare, arranged like holy relics. A stack of Criterion Collection DVDs sits on a shelf, still in their plastic wrap, perfectly aligned by someone who is definitely not Doreen.
She spreads her arms, nearly hitting both walls at once. "Isn’t it just... visceral?" she asks, looking around the beige box with wonder. The photographer snaps away. The team nods with the exhaustion of people who are paid to validate delusions. Doreen flashes a grin that is confident, pre-approved, and utterly sincere in its self-satisfaction.
"See?" she says, winking at me. "I can totally be normal."
We move to the town’s lone bookshop-café, a space that smells of roasted beans and stubborn authenticity. The shelves are lined with paperbacks that have spine creases and dog-eared pages; evidence of actual reading, which is a novelty in Doreen’s usual orbit, where books are generally color-coded props used to balance vases.
She settles onto a distressed leather couch, draping herself into a pose that suggests she is either deeply relaxed or unconsciously modeling for a furniture catalog. Probably both. She takes a sip of a cappuccino made with almond milk that her PA assures me was "blessed by intention," and unfurls a local newspaper. She scans the pages with the intense scrutiny of someone looking for her own name, or perhaps trying to decipher what "zoning laws" are.
My photographer leans in and says, "She looks like someone playing the role of a person reading." He isn't wrong. The tableau is perfect. Too perfect.
I decide to drop the heavy question. The one that has been orbiting the conversation since Mission: Impeccable broke the box office, the internet, and reality itself. "Doreen," I ask. "What does it feel like to have fundamentally altered the culture?"
She lowers the paper. She smiles, slow, satisfied, and terrifyingly vacant. "Honestly? It makes sense," she says, with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. "Beauty is a universal language. And I happen to speak it fluently." Behind the camera, her team nods with such vigor I fear we are moments away from a collective chiropractic emergency.
Doreen takes another sip of her blessed foam and continues, explaining the phenomenon as if she’s teaching a remedial physics class. "People were tired of complexity. They wanted something impeccable. I simply... gave it to them."
To the rest of us, Mission: Impeccable was a seismic event. It caused global merchandise shortages, riots at ticket booths, and a 400% spike in black tactical gear sales. Cultural critics called it "commercial transcendence." Economists called it "a fiscal thunderstorm."
Doreen calls it Tuesday.
On the wall behind her, a hand-painted sign reads: SILENT BOOK CLUB. PLEASE WHISPER YOUR FEELINGS.
Doreen does not whisper. Her voice projects confidence, cinematic, every sentence capable of being slapped onto a t-shirt. She places her cup down on the rustic coffee table, perfectly centered, naturally and offers a final thought, her eyes gleaming with the absolute certainty of a woman who has never heard the word 'no.'
"I didn’t just make a movie," she says, smoothing her hair. "I made culture impeccable."
If there is any place gentle enough to autopsy the breakup that dominated every news feed on Earth, it is this quiet book café in the heart of teleport-over country. But the question has to be asked.
Did Axton Vale, tech billionaire, space-enthusiast, and the man responsible for those phallic rockets to Venus, buy Doreen a career?
The rumors have been relentless. The gossip columns insisted their romance was a "reputation laundering" operation, a PR romance designed to distract from Axton’s scandals: the questionable factory conditions, the "disruptive" HR policies, and his tendency to post manifestos about "scaling human emotion" at three o’clock at night.
The famous photo taken the exact moment Doreen and Axton meet (courtesy of Gritty Images)
The narrative was simple: He bought the movie studio. She landed the starring role. Quid pro quo. I ask her, carefully, if his acquisition of the studio influenced her casting in Mission: Impeccable.She doesn't flinch. She doesn’t flutter. She laughs. "The gossip feeds," I press, "say the relationship was a setup. A transaction."
Now she blinks. Her face settles into a mask of polite, genuine confusion. It isn't anger. It is the mild, vacant serenity of someone who cannot comprehend the question. "But... that doesn't make any sense," she says.
"Why not?"
"Because," she explains, speaking slowly, as if helping me with a difficult math problem, "Axton’s fund didn't buy the studio two days until after I was cast. I had already gotten the role. We'd already shot a promo photo."
She offers this timeline as a complete legal defense. In Doreen’s world, this resolves all suspicions. The idea that a billionaire buying a studio to ensure his girlfriend’s movie gets made is still nepotism, regardless of the timestamp, does not register. To her, it wasn’t corruption; it was simply... synergy.
"He believed in my vision," she adds softly. "He saw my audition tape. He said it was... metaversal."
She exhales a sigh that is perfumed with restraint. The breakup, she admits, was "amicable, aesthetically speaking." "Axton is brilliant," she says, staring at a bookshelf that her team is currently rearranging for better lighting. "We understood each other. But sometimes brilliance has gravity. And when you’re both shining too hard, the light starts to compete."
There is a pause. Then, unprompted, she drops a bombshell about their hypotheticals.
"We talked about having children once," she says, offering a wistful half-smile. "Just in that vague, romantic way people do between product launches and battery recalibrations. I wanted to name our daughter Lara. Something classic. Cinematic."
She shakes her head, incredulous. "But Axton said it had to be Lara.X." She laughs softly. "He said the 'X' would make her future-proof. I told him it would only make the burden heavier. When you already live under the weight of fame, every extra symbol adds another expectation. By adding the X, you’re giving her smaller shoulders to carry the weight."
I stare at her. It is a statement that makes absolutely no physiological sense, yet somehow, in this room, feels like profound wisdom. "Was it real?" I ask. "For you?"
Her expression remains poised, but her voice betrays her, just the slightest break slipping through: “I loved him… he was all of it. My world, and everything in it.” She pulls out her phone, not with her usual flair, but with the hesitation of someone opening a diary. She scrolls, showing me the "Deep Cuts" of the Axton Era.
There they are: California sunsets where her hair is wild and his smile is awkward; a "candid" kitchen cuddle (that definitely came with a press release); and a photo from Paris Pride, featuring Doreen with a rainbow brushed onto her cheek and Axton waving a tiny flag with the earnest confusion of a man trying to optimize joy. "Everyone’s energy matters," she says, zooming in on the rainbow. "Love is a frequency. Everyone deserves to be tuned in."
She looks at the screen for a couple of moments, not admiring her angles, but actually seeing the memory. "People love to think it was strategic," she says, a shadow crossing her perfectly highlighted features. "But I had never done 'life' together with someone before. I’m used to admiration. But affection…”she looks out of the window for a second before continuing, “that’s rarer."
Suddenly, the air shifts. Tamsin, the ever-vigilant PA, senses the dangerous rise of unauthorized vulnerability. She steps closer, clearing her throat with the force of a gavel. On cue, Doreen straightens. The emotional posture resets. The mask slides back into place. "Anyway," she concludes, brighter now, brittle. "Let’s take another photo, yes?" and hands the phone back to Tamsin, who wipes the screen vigorously with a microfiber cloth, cleaning away the fingerprints, and perhaps, the history.
After the emotional exorcism of her past, Doreen claps her hands. It is time, she announces, to show the world the real Cerulean Township. "This place is... authentic," she says, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "Rustic. It’s almost fictional in how real it is."
And so begins the tour: Doreen Elytis’s curated glimpse into the exotic, mysterious world of Ordinary Existence. She gestures proudly at the trees, the mud, and the uneven pavement as if she has personally discovered the concept of ‘outside.’ "People here work in the woods," she explains, wide-eyed, as if revealing the premise of a groundbreaking documentary. "They live with nature... not on top of it."
She leads us to a rough wooden bench beneath the pines, nature’s version of VIP seating. A weathered book lies nearby, decorated with moon phases and stones. "They read these," she tells me, picking it up like it’s a dead sea scroll. "Manuals for... living close to Earth." I refrain from pointing out that it is likely a prop left over from the set dressing department.
Next, she guides us to an object that clearly fascinates her: a rattling, rusted blue sedan. She slides behind the wheel, gripping the plastic rim with affectionate awe. "Some people here drive themselves," she says, genuinely astonished. "Like, physically. With feet." She taps the gas pedal gingerly with her platform heel, as though controlling a wild beast. In the background, Tamsin, her PA, looks ready to call the insurance company.
Then, we reach the tour's pièce de résistance: The Outhouse. Doreen steps inside the wooden shack like she is entering the Louvre. She sits (carefully hovering) on the bench. "This is where locals... do their business," she says, her tone reverent but deeply confused. "It’s very earth-forward." A production assistant discreetly checks the floor for spiders before allowing the moment to continue.
The tour takes an agricultural turn when Doreen feels the moment calls for an accessory. Despite the perfectly clear sky, she snaps open a pristine umbrella, presumably to shield her complexion from unfiltered rural air. We first encounter a surprisingly tame raccoon, which immediately panics and bolts after the camera flash, presumably blinded, only to run head-first into the nearest tree.
Before we can even process that, Doreen is already squealing with excitement, pointing out a lone cow grazing peacefully by the fence."They are so... sturdy," she observes, maintaining a respectful, umbrella-length distance from the animal. "And they don't even have stylists. It’s brave, really."
Tamsin, the ever-vigilant PA, suddenly clutches her headset and gasps, “The light is conscious! It knows its purpose!” Before anyone can question what that means, we’re briskly escorted toward a lakeside café as if nature itself booked the reservation.
Doreen takes her seat gracefully, script in hand, her expression shifting into that deep, pensive actor-at-work mode. But not before her entourage erupts into motion. One stylist dives in to tame a rebellious curl. Another adjusts her collar by a millimeter, because cinema. The photographer receives a rapid-fire briefing that sounds like a NASA launch checklist. Meanwhile, the intern checks the wind direction with a wetted finger like a seasoned meteorologist.
We all wait… holding our breath… until that one, divine moment when the breeze drifts in from the west, gently catching her hair. Birds pause mid-tweet, sensing the importance. The sunlight does that cinematic sparkle thing it definitely practiced in the mirror this morning.
Click. A masterpiece is born.
Walking back, we pass a small gazebo. Pillows and blankets arranged with such precision it’s clear someone used a laser level on soft furnishings. A man in a black suit and an earpiece stands guard, radiating top-secret picnic energy. With the slightest nod from Tamsin, he vanishes into… well, somewhere. Shadows? Alternate dimension? Craft services? Hard to say.
We’re then granted access to what the team reverently calls Doreen’s Epiphany Circle. A junior assistant steps forward with the solemnity of a museum curator unveiling a lost relic. “She comes here to… exist,” she whispers, eyes widening for emphasis.
We respond with gentle nods, pretending we fully grasp the depth of that statement. The photographer starts snapping, capturing the artistry of existence itself, or at least Doreen looking flawless on some very expensive cushions.
Click. Click. The moment is eternal. And we move on.
We briefly settle at the lunch table, a long rustic setup filled with nothing but good foods. No crust-cut sandwiches or suspicious quinoa here. The “recharging” crew already at the table vanishes the instant Tamsin lifts a hand, as if they’ve trained for years solely to perfect that move.
Doreen sits gracefully, gestures toward the impeccable spread and speaks with the gravitas of a wellness guru: “Nutrition is essential,” she says. “A healthy crew performs better. Their internal systems must be maintained with the highest quality fuel. I take great care of them.”
Before we can process the earnestness of that statement, a loud burst of laughter erupts from somewhere in the woods. Everyone freezes. Then, on silent cue, every single person chooses to pretend that absolutely nothing happened.
The photographer snaps a few shots, Doreen mid-monologue about electrolytes, antioxidants and creative energy, and we continue onward before another “internal system” decides to express itself.
From the pasture, we move to a small local bar. Doreen orders a drink, a pale herbal concoction that smells vaguely of lawn clippings."See? Nature hydrates them," she says, swirling the mint. "It’s practically wellness."
She spots a local, a flannel-wearing lumber worker minding his own business, and waves enthusiastically. The man nods once, confused but polite, and continues walking. Doreen turns to me, beaming. "They greet each other!" she whispers excitedly. "With... friendliness. It’s so communal."
Finally, at the request of the photographer, she lounges across the hood of a battered car stacked with travel gear that looks older than her entire filmography.
"Fashion isn’t a focus here," she says, gesturing broadly at the pile of suitcases. "They wear clothes that keep them warm and covered. It’s so... purely functional." Her tone suggests she has discovered a new species of mammal.
She refers to the locals as "real persons," a phrase that implies everyone she normally interacts with is only adjacent to humanity. And yet, beneath the exoticizing phrasing, her admiration is bizarrely genuine. She likes their labor. She likes their routines that do not require a hashtag. "I love it here," she says, staring at the rusty car hood. "Cerulean makes me feel like... a person."
By the time the sun surrenders and Cerulean’s neon signs flicker awake, we end the day at The Rusty Spoon, the town’s humble attempt at a wine bar. The ambience is "renovated shed," and the cheese platter arrives on a wooden plank that looks older than Doreen’s entire career, accompanied by a knife so large it implies the cheddar might fight back.
Her entourage has been dismissed for their mandatory "sunset mindfulness and immunity-boost smoothie session." It is just Doreen, myself, the photographer, Tamsin (who is never truly gone), and the creeping hush of the approaching night.
Doreen picks at the crackers like they are edible props, careful not to actually consume any carbohydrates, and swirls a glass of crisp white wine that pairs nicely with the burden of fame."The Mission: Impeccable months were... everything," she says, her voice dropping to a warm, practiced whisper. "A storm with a halo." She tells me she still scrolls through the millions of fan posts tagging her on premiere night. She talks about the movie tickets clutched like religious talismans, the teenagers recreating her signature poses, the stadiums of faces lit only by the glow of her movie poster. "They gave the movie its heartbeat," she says, staring at the dangerous cheese knife. "I didn’t just play a hero. They made me one."
And then, because the atmosphere is low-lit and intimate, the breakup comes up again. This time it is softer, less guarded, and suspiciously cinematic. "I hope people understand," she says, pausing for the exact number of seconds required to edit a clip for a trailer. "At the end of the day... I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her." I freeze. My pen hovers over my notebook.
Yes, she really just quoted Notting Hill. Yes, she absolutely believes she just coined it. No, I do not have the heart to tell her.
Tomorrow, the rustic cosplay ends. She is teleporting back to metropolis life for the premiere of Waarheid, the new film by Caitlin Tobias, whom Doreen refers to as a "close personal friend", a term in Hollywood that usually indicates they have met twice and share a tax bracket. "We’ve talked about collaborating," she adds, eyes sparkling. "Maybe something with... emotional explosions." She makes a little expanding gesture with her hands to simulate the detonation of feelings.
Suddenly, Tamsin steps out of the shadows. She checks an invisible watch and taps her clipboard. "Energy levels are critical," she announces. "We need to initiate the recharge cycle."
Before I can ask for the check, or clarify if "recharge cycle" means sleep or a cryogenic chamber, Doreen stands up. She offers me one last, blinding smile, a high-voltage dismissal.
"Thank you for seeing the real me," she says.
She turns, and in a swirl of expensive fabric and the faint scent of lavender and denial, she is gone. The Rusty Spoon is suddenly just a shed again. I am left alone with an empty wine glass, a block of untouched cheese, and the distinct feeling that I have just hallucinated the last twelve hours.
Twenty-four hours later, the rustic spell is officially broken.
I am back in my New York apartment, nursing a coffee that isn’t "blessed by intention," staring at my notes. The silence of the woods feels a million miles away. My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
It’s Doreen.
She has sent two photos, clearly pre-approved by a committee of visual strategists, taken just hours ago at the premiere of Waarheid . The transformation is absolute. The girl in the denim and crop top is gone; in her place stands the industry titan, armored in couture.
The first image captures her arrival in the metropolis. She is wearing a plunging noir suit that means business, standing impassive while a wall of photographers fires a strobe-light assault.
The cameras orbit her like a constellation. She doesn't blink. She doesn't look overwhelmed. She looks like she owns the lens.
The second photo is from later in the evening. A smaller press huddle outside the theater. Snow is falling, real snow, or perhaps expensive movie snow, it’s hard to tell with her, and she is offering the camera a smile that is perfectly calibrated for awards-season speculation.
Underneath the images, a text bubble appears.
“I enjoyed the company. Please write my truth beautifully. ♥️ D.”
I stare at the screen. It isn't a request; it is a command from the throne. She doesn’t want the actual truth; the moose, the outhouse, the cheese knife. She wants the beautiful truth. The version where the lighting is perfect and the narrative arc lands.
I smile at my screen as I start my reply. "Don't worry, Doreen," I type. "I wouldn't dare write it any other way."
The podcast team of Rolling Prim made a podcast about this exclusive article. Valerie Cruz and Wes Sterling do a deep dive into the article by Jessica Wilder, providing an intimate but meticulously controlled look at the life of supermodel-turned-actress Doreen Elytis. In this episode, they break down everything; from the chaotic brilliance behind Mission: Impeccable’s marketing, to the surreal level of curation on set, to the PR-polished version of Doreen’s personal life that Wilder was allowed to see. They question how much of the star’s “beautiful truth” is performance, how fame reshapes reality around her, and whether anyone can truly get close to a woman who has turned her own image into her greatest masterpiece.
If the above image doesn’t work for you, please click here to listen to the podcast.
Editor’s Note
Stories like this are never created alone. Our gratitude goes out to everyone who helped shape and inform this feature, with insights, expertise, patience, and sometimes sheer courage.
Thank you to each voice who contributed perspective, each source who spoke on (and off) the record, and every member of the production team who navigated the unique… challenges… of reporting inside a world crafted so carefully by Ms. Elytis and her team.
With appreciation,
Rolling Prim magazine
Special thanks goes out to:
@Stacey Starling @Caitlin Tobias @Eddy Vortex @Cinnamon Mistwood @PermaRuthed @AdelineLake @Scylla Rhiadra @Leonardis Ducatillon @LexxiXhan @Ceka Cianci @SandorWren @SlammedSam @InnerCity Elf @Susie Ashdene @JeromFranzic @Imsu @CronoCloud Creeggan @Ice Luv @Kylie Jaxxon @Clement Burney and @WeFlossDaily Your collaboration made this story possible and much richer than it could ever have been otherwise.
(seriously guys, thank you!)
If you enjoyed reading this story and haven't already seen them; I wrote two other ones as well. You can find them here:
