On a summery afternoon in late September, I arranged to meet Adam Driver near his home in Brooklyn Heights. He beat me to the restaurant and, for a second or two, as I stood on the sidewalk looking through the large plate-glass windows, I gawked at him unobserved. He was sitting alone in full sun at a table by the window facing out, a thirty-four-year-old guy in a plain dark T-shirt with a bright flop of black hair, a conversation-piece nose, and deep-red, complicated lips, his features scattered across a big and—perhaps because of the openness of its acreage—friendly-seeming face. Unselfconscious in this New York storefront, Driver was looking at his phone as if Disney's marketing millions had somehow failed in their mission to transform him into one of the most recognizable faces in the world. He had, as we all know, been chosen: to play Kylo Ren in Episode VII: The Force Awakens and, on December 15, in Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, of the Star Wars franchise. Driver had landed as huge a part in a Hollywood movie as an actor could—the son of Han and Leia, the nephew of Luke, and, moreover, the grandson of Darth Vader, the most iconic bad guy in movie history—a role that would change Driver's life and career and—
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