Just over a month ago, I got a call I didn't deserve. It was an invite to New Zealand for the launch of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which opens tomorrow. I don't know why they picked me, but I don't question Santa either. A couple of weeks later I was on an Air New Zealand flight to Wellington. It was my last happy moment in a Viggo Mortensen-less world.

Cleo Paskal her w-n page

Day One, a.m. I land in Auckland to find Viggo (Aragorn) on the front page of the local newspaper. He is in town and HE HAS CUT HIS HAIR! This is the first of many Viggo Funfacts (Trademark) to be inflicted upon me. Not that I am a full-on Viggophobe. It is just that he reminds me of this guy I knew in college who was Mr. Perfect Gorgeous Poet. Long hair, penetrating eyes, too busy thinking deep thoughts to talk much. Students from the all-girls school next to ours would haunt our yard just to catch sight of him. Every school has a Viggo. Needless to say, he never spoke to me, and I hated him. Always happy to redirect my emotions, I find that Viggo, onscreen and off, makes me sulky.

Day One, p.m. I fly from Auckland to Wellington. Seated next to me are two Americans, mother and daughter, both called Ava. They are on their way to the premiere festivities and have spent months planning. They won't be able to see the film, but a "ringers" Web site, www.theonering.net, has organized a costume party.

The daughter had ordered an Eowyn doll off eBay and meticulously hand-stitched a copy of her costume. She hasn't read the books and is looking forward to finding out how it all ends. The mom read the books in the '70s and named her first car, a '64 American Rambler, Hobbit.

The inflight coffee mugs have Viggo's face on them. Ava and Ava forgo hot beverages so they can keep Viggo pristine. I use him to dip my cookies into. They tell me how Viggo wasn't going to take the role, but his son convinced him he should. Awwww. How touching. Nice of him to sacrifice his career as an actor to take an acting job.

Day Two Mr. Viggo Perfect is the talk of Wellington. He is on the cover of the city guide, the side of two Air New Zealand Boeing 747s, and had just been seen walking barefoot downtown (he is soooo Bohemian). A colleague tries to convince me that Viggo is not Aragorn. I agree. They are both that annoyingly ideal guy from college.

Day Three Turns out Viggo is opening two photography exhibits in town. Not just an actor, but an artist. One involves paying $100 to go to the opening. The other involves getting up early and being subjected to a press conference with Viggo. Being cheaper than I am lazy, I get up early.

The exhibit is a fundraiser for Massey University (oh, Viggo, you are so thoughtful). I don't know anything about art, so all I can say is they were pretty colours. That same colleague tells me that some of the photos were taken when Viggo was lost in the woods at night and used his flash to try to find his way out. I believe it.

The press conference is in the museum auditorium. A phalanx of photographers set themselves up in front.

In order to see, I sit on the floor close to the table where Viggo will sit. One of the organizers comes over to me and sternly tells me, "No questions about The Lord of the Rings. This is about Viggo as an artist." Er, OK.

I spend the next little while thinking up suitably pretentious questions. I finally settle on: "Viggo, photography is an art of distance and acting is an art of intimacy. Is it difficult to keep those roles separate?" That should do it.

Viggo comes in late, artistically dishevelled, barefoot and sipping from a Peruvian mate cup. The audience, hardened journalists all, get ready to redirect their own emotions. Many of the women sit a bit straighter, many of the men slouch defensively.

The questions start. All from either women or gay men. Viggo answers, soft-spoken or mumbling, depending on your point of view. He treads the line between pretentious and self-deprecating. The surprising thing is that nothing he says is surprising. Or even particularly interesting. My college pal was deeper. I am going to have to revise my question. It might confuse him.

My turn comes. I look Viggo straight in the eye and ask: "I noticed your spoken-word CD is dedicated to Chomsky. How important is politics to your art?" Viggo looks at me, opens his mouth, and waffles. Yes, he likes Chomsky, but then he goes off on a tangent about how his dog is a great role model. OK, I tried.

I start to drift off. I have lost the will to hate Viggo. Poor guy. He is just a lucky actor trying his best to make his life meaningful. I am going to have to find someone else to be the focus of my inner teen angst.

One of the last questions is asked by a tough-looking New Zealand Herald beat reporter, sitting in the back with his feet up on the chair in front of him. "Hey, Viggo, to what extent do people come to see your art because you are famous? And do you think you are any good?"

The emperor has no clothes. And I almost feel sorry for him. Then he waffles divinely about how "I aim first and foremost to please myself." Viggo finishes by inviting us all to his poetry recital the following night. Then he adds that Jello Biafra is in town, and we would do better to go see him.

As I get up to go, the guy who warned me off asking Rings questions comes over and apologizes, slightly embarrassed, about his admonitions. He had also been judging at a distance. And I had "matched the profile."

Pardon? Seems they had been warned about Viggo security risks involving "young, good-looking women who sit near the front." And I had "matched." Young and good-looking? I start to feel rather warmly toward dear old Viggo.