故事本該在第六集結(jié)束，值得三顆星，但最后兩集back to reality，更加渲染了安娜的力量，“she‘s good at making people care about her”，“Everyone so eager to help”，以及讓人回過神去發(fā)覺，故事背后，影片真正想讓觀眾關(guān)心的并不只是安娜是什么樣，而是這樣的安娜從何而來，child like this is “made out of nowhere”，并不是家庭并不是環(huán)境逼迫，如果只是雜志給了安娜那樣的夢，又是什么給了她孤身一人冒充貴族的膽量，危機時候謀劃簽證法漏洞的淡定？

“so you just let her go？”

“no，she's always beyond us”

“Maybe She Had So Much Money She Just Lost Track of It”

Jessica Pressler

It started with money, as it so often does in New York. A crisp $100 bill slipped across the smooth surface of the mid-century-inspired concierge desk at 11 Howard, the sleek new boutique hotel in Soho. Looking up, Neffatari Davis, the 25-year-old concierge, who goes by “Neff,” was surprised to see the cash had come from a young woman who seemed to be around her age. She had a heart-shaped face and pouty lips surrounded by a wild tangle of red hair, her eyes framed by incongruously chunky black glasses that Neff, an aspiring cinematographer with an eye for detail, identified as Céline. She was looking, she said in an accent that sounded European, for “the best food in Soho.”

Anna

Vivian原型、原作者：Jessica Pressler

“What’s your name?” Neff asked, after the girl waved off her suggestions of Carbone and the Mercer Kitchen and settled on the Butcher’s Daughter.

“Anna Delvey,” said the young woman. She’d be staying at the hotel for a month, she went on, which Neff also found surprising: Usually it was only celebrities who came for such long stretches. But Neff checked the system, and there it was. Delvey was booked into a Howard Deluxe, one of the hotel’s midrange options, about $400 a night, with ceramic sculptures on the walls and oversize windows looking onto the bustling streets of Soho. It was February 18, 2017.

“Thanks,” said Delvey. “See you around.”

That turned out to be a promise. Over the next few weeks, Delvey stopped by often to ask Neff’s advice, slipping her $100 each time. Neff would wax on about how Mr. Purple was totally washed and Vandal was for hipsters, while Delvey’s eyes would flit around behind her glasses. Eventually, Neff realized: Delvey already knew all the cool places to go — not only that, she knew the names of the bartenders and waiters and owners. “This is not a guest that needs my help,” it dawned on her. “This is a guest that wants my time.”

This was not out of the ordinary. Since she’d started working there, Neff, a Washington, D.C., native with a wedge of natural hair, giant Margaret Keane eyes, and a gap-toothed smile, had found herself playing therapist to all manner of hotel guests: husbands cheating on their wives, wives getting away from their husbands. “You just sit there and listen, because that’s your concierge life,” she recalled recently, at a coffee shop near her apartment in Crown Heights.

Usually, these guests went back to their own lives, leaving Neff to hers. But February became March, and Delvey kept showing up. She’d bring food down, or a glass of extra-dry white wine, and settle near Neff’s desk to chat. Some of the other hotel employees found Anna deeply annoying. She could be oddly ill-mannered for a rich person: Please and thank you were not in her vocabulary, and she would sometimes say things that were “Not racist,” Neff said, “but classist.” (“What are you bitches, broke?” Anna asked her and another hotel employee.) But to Neff, it didn’t come across as mean-spirited. More like she was some kind of old-fashioned princess who’d been plucked from an ancient European castle and deposited in the modern world, although according to Anna she came from modern-day Germany and her father ran a business producing solar panels. And despite her unassuming figure — “a sort of Sound of Music Fr?ulein,” one acquaintance later put it — Anna quickly established herself as one of 11 Howard’s most generous guests. “People would fight to take her packages upstairs,” said Neff. “Fight, because you knew you were getting $100.” Over time, Delvey got more and more comfortable in the hotel, swanning around in sheer Alexander Wang leggings or, occasionally, a hotel robe. “She ran that place,” said Neff. “You know how Rihanna walks out with wineglasses? That was Anna. And they let her. Bye, Ms. Delvey …”

Anna was preparing to launch a business, a Soho House–ish type club, she told Neff, focused on art, with locations in L.A., London, Hong Kong, and Dubai, and Neff became her de facto secretary, organizing business lunches and dinners at restaurants like Seamore’s and the hotel’s own Le Coucou. (“That’s what they do in the rich culture, is meals,” said Neff.) On occasion, when Delvey showed up while the concierge desk was busy, she would stand at the counter, coolly counting out bills until she got Neff’s attention. “I’d be like, ‘Anna, there’s a line of eight people.’ But she’d keep putting money down.” And even though Neff had begun to think of Anna as not just a hotel guest but a friend, a real friend, she didn’t hesitate to take it. “A little selfish of me,” she admitted later. “But … yeah.”

Who can blame her? This was Manhattan in the 21st century, and money is more powerful than ever. Rare is the city dweller who, when presented with an opportunity for a sudden and unexpected influx of cash, doesn’t grasp for it. Of course, this money almost always comes with strings attached. Sometimes you can barely see them, like that vaudeville bit in which the pawn dives for a loose bill only to find it pulled just ahead. Still, everyone makes the reach. Because here, money is the one thing that no one can ever have enough of.

For a stretch of time in New York, no small amount of the cash in circulation was coming from Anna Delvey. “She gave to everyone,” said Neff. “Uber drivers, $100 cash. Meals — listen. You know how you reach for your credit card? She wouldn’t let me.”

The way Anna spent money, it was like she couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Her room was overflowing with shopping bags from Acne and Supreme, and in between meetings, she’d invite Neff to foot massages, cryotherapy, manicures (Anna favored “a light Wes Anderson pink,” according to Neff). One day, she brought Neff to a session with a personal trainer–slash–life coach she’d found online, a svelte, ageless Oprah-esque figure who works with celebrities like Dakota Johnson.

“Stop sinking into your body,” the trainer commanded Anna. “Shoulders back, navel to spine. You are a bright woman; you want to be a businesswoman. You gotta be staying strong on your own power.”

Afterward, as Neff panted on the sidelines, Anna bought a package of sessions. “It was, I’m not lying, $4,500,” said Neff.

Anna paid cash.

Neff’s boyfriend didn’t understand why she was spending so much time with this weird girl from work. Anna didn’t understand why Neff had a boyfriend. But he was rich, Neff protested. He’d promised to finance her first movie. “Dump him,” Anna advised. “I have more money.” She would finance the movie.

Neff did dump the guy. Not because of what Anna had said, although she had no reason to doubt it. Her new friend, she discovered, belonged to a vast and glittering social circle. “Anna knew everyone,” said Neff. At night, she’d taken to hosting large dinners at Le Coucou, attended by CEOs, artists, athletes, even celebrities. One night, Neff found herself seated next to her childhood idol, Macaulay Culkin. “Which was awkward,” she said. “Because I had so many questions. And he was right there. But they were talking about, like, friend stuff. So I never got the chance to be like, ‘So, you the godfather to Michael Jackson’s kids?’”

Despite her seemingly nomadic living situation, Anna had long been a figure on the New York social scene. “She was at all the best parties,” said marketing director Tommy Saleh, who met her in 2013 at Le Baron in Paris during Fashion Week. Delvey had been an intern at European scenester magazine Purple and appeared to be tight with the magazine’s editor-in-chief, Olivier Zahm, and its man-about-town, André Saraiva, an owner of Le Baron — two of “the 200 or so people you see everywhere,” as Saleh put it: Chilterns and Loulou’s in London; the Crow’s Nest in Montauk; Paul’s Baby Grand and the Bowery Hotel; Frieze, Coachella, Art Basel. “She introduced herself, and she was a sweet girl, very polite,” said Saleh. “Then we’re just hanging with my friends all of a sudden.”

Soon, Anna was everywhere too. “She managed to be in all the sort of right places,” recalled one acquaintance who met Anna in 2015 at a party thrown by a start-up mogul in Berlin. “She was wearing really fancy clothing” — Balenciaga, or maybe Ala?a — “and someone mentioned that she flew in on a private jet.” It was unclear where exactly Anna came from — she told people she was from Cologne, but her German wasn’t very good — or what the source of her wealth was. But that wasn’t unusual. “There are so many trust-fund kids running around,” said Saleh. “Everyone is your best friend, and you don’t know a thing about anyone.”

She was wearing really fancy clothing. Some one mentioned she flew in on a private jet.

After a gallerist at Pace introduced her to Michael Xufu Huang, the extremely young, extremely dapper collector and founder of Beijing’s M Woods museum, Anna proposed they go together to the Venice Biennale. Huang thought it was “a little weird” when Anna asked him to book the plane tickets and hotel on his credit card. “But I was like, Okay, whatever,” he said. It was also strange, he noticed during their time there, that Anna only ever paid with cash, and after they got back, she seemed to forget she’d said she’d pay him back. “It was not a lot of money,” he said. “Like two or three thousand dollars.” After a while, Huang kind of forgot about it too.

When you’re superrich, you can be forgetful in this way. Which is maybe why no one thought much of the instances in which Anna did things that seemed odd for a wealthy person: calling a friend to have her put a taxi from the airport on her credit card, or asking to sleep on someone’s couch, or moving into someone’s apartment with the tacit agreement to pay rent, and then … not doing it. Maybe she had so much money she just lost track of it.

The following January, Anna hired a PR firm to put together a birthday party at one of her favorite restaurants, Sadelle’s in Soho. “It was a lot of very cool, very successful people,” said Huang, who, while aware Anna owed him money for their Venice trip, remained mostly unconcerned about it, at least until the restaurant, having seen Polaroids of Huang and Anna at the party on Instagram, messaged him a few days later. “They were like, ‘Do you have her contact info?’” he says now. “‘Because she didn’t pay her bill.’ Then I realized, Oh my God, she is not legit.”

As Anna bounced around the globe, there was some speculation as to where her means to do this came from, though no one seemed to care that much so long as the bills got paid.

“I thought she had family money,” said Jayma Cardoso, one of the owners of the Surf Lodge in Montauk. Delvey’s father was a diplomat to Russia, one friend was sure. No, another insisted, he was an oil-industry titan. “As far as I knew, her family was the Delvey family that is big in antiques in Germany,” said another acquaintance, a millionaire tech CEO. (It is unclear what family he was referring to.) The CEO met Anna through the boyfriend she was running around with for a while, a futurist on the TED-Talks circuit who’d been profiled in The New Yorker.For about two years, they’d been kind of like a team, showing up in places frequented by the itinerant wealthy, living out of fancy hotels and hosting sceney dinners where the Futurist talked up his app and Delvey spoke of the private club she wanted to open once she turned 25 and came into her trust fund.

Then it was 2016. The Futurist, whose app never materialized, moved to the Emirates, and Anna came to New York on her own, determined to make her arts club a reality, although she worried to Marc Kremers, the London creative director helping her with branding, that the name she’d come up with — the Anna Delvey Foundation, or ADF — was “too narcissistic.”

Early on, Anna and architect Ron Castellano, a friend of her Purple cohort, had scouted a building on the Lower East Side, but it turned out to be too close to a school to get a liquor license, and soon Anna had shifted her aspirations uptown. Through her connections, she’d befriended Gabriel Calatrava, one of the sons of famed architect Santiago. His family’s real-estate advisory company, Calatrava Grace, had helped her “secure the lease,” she informed people, on the perfect space: 45,000 square feet occupying six floors of the historic Church Missions House, a landmarked building on the corner of Park Avenue and 22nd. The heart of the club would be, she said, a “dynamic visual-arts center,” with a rotating array of pop-up shops curated by artist Daniel Arsham, whom she knew from her Purpledays, and exhibitions and installations from blue-chip artists like Urs Fischer, Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons, and Tracey Emin. For the inaugural event, Anna told people, the artist Christo had agreed to wrap the building. Some people raised their eyebrows at the grandiosity of this plan, but to others it made sense, in a New York kind of way. The building’s owner, developer Aby Rosen, was no stranger to the private-club genre; a few years earlier, he’d bought a midtown building and opened the Core Club, which housed an art collection. He also happened to own 11 Howard.

With the help of Calatrava executive Michael Jaffe, a former employee of Rosen’s RFR realty firm, Anna soon began meeting with big names in the food-and-beverage world to discuss possibilities in the space. One was André Balazs, who, according to Anna, suggested they add two floors of hotel rooms. Another was Richie Notar, one of the founders of Nobu, who did a walk-through of the building with Anna as she described her vision, which included three restaurants, a juice bar, and a German bakery. “Apparently her family was prominent in Germany,” Notar said, “and funding this big project for her.”

But a project of this size required more capital than even someone of Anna’s apparently considerable resources could manage: approximately $25 million, “in addition to $25m existing,” Anna wrote in an email to a prominent Silicon Valley publicist in 2016. “If you think this is something you could help us with and have anyone in mind who would be a good cultural fit for this project.” But by fall, Anna had turned on the idea of private investors, in part because she didn’t want anyone telling her what to do. “If we were to bring in investors, they would say, ‘Oh, she’s 25; she doesn’t know what she’s doing,’” Anna explained later. “I wanted to build the first one myself.”

To help secure a loan, one of Anna’s “finance friends” had told her to get in touch with Joel Cohen, best known as the prosecutor of Jordan Belfort, a.k.a. the Wolf of Wall Street. Cohen now worked at Gibson Dunn, a large firm known for its real-estate practice. He put her in touch with Andy Lance, a partner who happened to have the exact kind of expertise that Anna was looking for. In the past, she’d complained to friends about feeling condescended to by older male lawyers because of her age and gender. But Lance was different. “He knows how to talk to women,” she said. “And he would explain to me the right amount, without being patronizing.” According to Anna, she and Lance spoke every day. “He was there all the time. He would answer in the middle of the night, or when he was in Turks and Caicos for Christmas.”

After filling out Gibson Dunn’s new-client-intake form, which included checking boxes that confirmed the client had the resources to pay and would not embarrass the firm, Lance put Anna in touch with several large financial institutions, including Los Angeles–based City National Bank and Fortress Investment Group. “Our client Anna Delvey is undertaking a very exciting redevelopment of 281 Park Avenue South, backed by a marquee team for this type of venue and space,” Lance wrote in one email, in which he explained that Anna needed the loan because “her personal assets, which are quite substantial, are located outside the US, some of them in trust with UBS outside the US.” The monies she received, he added, would be “fully secured” by a letter of credit from the Swiss bank. (Lance did not respond to requests for comment.)

When the banker at City National asked to see the UBS statements, he received a list of figures from a man named Peter W. Hennecke. “Please use these for your projections for now,” Hennecke wrote in an email. “I’ll send the physical statements on Monday.”

“Question: Are you from UBS?” the banker replied, puzzled by Hennecke’s AOL address.

No, Anna explained. “Peter is head of my family office.”

With Anna in fund-raising mode, the artists and celebrity friends at her dinners were gradually supplanted by men with “Goyard briefcases and Rolexes, and Hublot, like that Jay-Z lyric,” according to Neff, who at one point looked across the table at Le Coucou and recognized the face of infamous “pharma bro” Martin Shkreli, who would later be convicted of securities fraud. Anna introduced Shkreli as a “dear friend,” although it was really the only time they’d met, Shkreli told New York in a letter from the penitentiary; Anna was close with one of his executives. “Anna did seem to be a popular ‘woman about town’ who knew everyone,” he wrote. “Even though I was nationally known, I felt like a computer geek next to her.”

As for Neff, she was not as discreet as she had been with Macaulay Culkin, tweeting after the fact that Shkreli had played her and Anna the leaked tracks from Tha Carter V, the delayed Lil Wayne album he’d acquired. Anna was furious, but Neff refused to delete the tweet. “I wanted everybody to know that I heard this album that the world is waiting on! But Anna was pretty mad. She didn’t come down to my desk for maybe three days.”

In the meantime, though, Neff said she had another visitor: Charlie Rosen. Aby Rosen’s sons were generally regarded as pretty-boy trust-fund kids — a few years back, they made headlines for reportedly racing ATVs over piping-plover nests in the Hamptons — but Neff liked them, and when Charlie stopped by one evening, she dropped that she’d recently been to visit the Park Avenue building that one of the guests, a young woman, was leasing from their father for an arts club.

Rosen looked confused. He didn’t appear to have ever heard of Anna or her project. “What room is she staying in?” he asked. When Neff told him, he looked skeptical. “If my dad has someone buying property from him staying here,” he said, “would she be in a Deluxe or would she be in a suite?”

He had a point. A few days later, Neff broached the subject. “Why did you tell me you’re buying property from Aby but you’re not staying in a suite?” she asked.

Anna looked surprised but answered immediately. “She said, ‘You ever have someone do so many favors for you, you kind of just want to pay them back in silence?’”

“Genius,” Neff said.

Soon it was April. Spring was poking its head through the gray New York City sidewalks, and the weather was getting warm enough to sip rosé on rooftops, one of Anna’s favorite activities, although the circle she was doing this with, Neff noticed, was smaller than it had been in the past and mainly consisted of herself; Rachel Williams, a photo editor at Vanity Fair; and the trainer, who, although she was notably older, had taken a motherly interest in her client. “I know a lot of trust-fund babies, and I was impressed that Anna had something that she wanted to do, instead of, you know, living like a Kardashian,” said the trainer. Plus, she said, Anna seemed lonely. Neff noticed the same thing. “What happened to your friends?” she asked Anna after one night out. “Oh,” Anna said vaguely. “They’re all mad I left Purple.” She was too busy for parties, anyway, she said, what with building her business.

It was true that Anna was spending a lot of time working, frowning at her in-box and huffing into the phone. “She was always on the phone with lawyers,” said Neff, who would sort of listen in from the concierge desk. “They were always toning her down. Like, ‘Anna, you’re trying to make something that’s worth this much be worth that much, and that’s just not how it works.’”

Back in December, City National had turned down her loan request — a management decision is how Anna framed it — and while the ever-loyal Andy Lance was reaching out to hedge funds and banks for alternate financing, executives at RFR were pressuring her to come up with the money fast, Anna said. If she didn’t, they were going to give it to another party, rumored to be the Swedish museum Fotografiska. “How do they even pay for that?” Anna fumed. “It’s like two old guys.”

In the meantime, Anna was having cash-flow issues of her own. One night, Anna asked Neff to dinner at Sant Ambroeus in Soho. They were by themselves, which was unusual. Even more unusually, at the end of the meal, Anna’s card was declined. “Here,” she told the waiter, handing him a list of credit-card numbers. In Neff’s admittedly foggy memory, they were in a small book, though it may have been the Notes app on her phone. But she’s clear on what happened next. “The waiter went back to his station and began entering the numbers. There were like 12, and I know the guy tried them all,” she said. “He was trying it and then shaking his head. And then I started to sweat, because I knew the bill was mine.” While the amount — $286 — was a fraction of what Anna usually spent, it was a lot for Neff, who quietly transferred money from her savings to cover the bill. Doing so made her feel sick, but after all the money Anna had spent on her, she understood it was her turn.

What happened to all your friends?” “Oh, they’re all mad I left Purple.

Not long after, Neff’s manager called and asked her to address a delicate issue: It seemed 11 Howard didn’t have a credit card on file for Anna Delvey. Because the hotel had been so new when she arrived, and because she was staying for such an unusually long time, and because she was a client of Aby Rosen’s and a very valued guest, it had agreed to accept a wire transfer. But a month and a half later, no such transfer had arrived, and now Delvey owed the hotel some $30,000, including charges from Le Coucou that she’d been billing to her room.

Neff wasn’t sure what to think. She was sure Anna was good for the money. The day after the Sant Ambroeus debacle, she’d paid her back triple. In cash.

When Anna came by her desk the next day, Neff took her aside and told her that management had said Anna needed to pay her bill. Anna nodded, her eyes inscrutable behind her sunglasses. There was a wire transfer on the way, she said. It should arrive soon. Then, about midway into her shift, Anna came by the desk again and, with a mischievous smile on her face, told Neff to expect a package. When it arrived, Neff opened it to find a case of 1975 Dom Pérignon, with Anna’s instructions to distribute it among the staff. Neff hesitated. Gifts, especially of the liquid variety, needed to be approved by management. “They were like, ‘How do we look approving this if she hasn’t paid us?’ So they went after her. ‘We need the money or we’re locking you out.’”

One morning, Anna showed up to her morning session with the trainer looking visibly upset. “Can we do a life-coaching session?” she pleaded. She was trying to build something, to do something, she went on, and no one was taking her seriously. “They think because I am young, they think I have all this money,” she sobbed. “I told them the money would be there soon. I’m having it transferred.”

The trainer told her to breathe. “I feel like you are in a little over your head,” she offered. “Maybe you just need a break.”

Then something miraculous happened. Citibank sent 11 Howard a wire transfer on behalf of Ms. Anna Delvey for $30,000. Neff called Anna on her cell phone. “Where you at?” she asked. Across the street at Rick Owens, Anna replied. Neff checked the clock: It was her lunch break. When she came through the door of the store, Anna was holding up a T-shirt. “Look what I found,” she said, beaming. “It’s perfect for you.” She was right: The shirt was the exact orangey red of the creepy bathroom scene in The Shining, one of Neff’s favorite movies, and the signature color of the brand Neff was trying to launch, FilmColours. It was also $400. “I’d love to buy it for you,” Anna said.

A few weeks later, Anna told Neff she was going to Omaha. “I’m going to see Warren Buffett,” she announced, grandly. One of her bankers had gotten her on the list to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual investment conference, and she’d decided to bring the executive from Martin Shkreli’s hedge fund, who was fun and a friend of his, on the private jet she’d rented to take them there. “I’ll be back,” she promised Neff.

But there was still a problem with her account at 11 Howard. Despite being repeatedly asked by hotel management, she still hadn’t given the hotel a working credit card, and her charges continued to mount. Following through on their warning, hotel employees changed the code on the lock of Anna’s room and put her things in storage. Neff texted Anna in Omaha to deliver the bad news.

“How can they do that?” Anna asked indignantly, although if she was truly shocked, it didn’t last long. The conference had been great, she said. The best part had happened the very last day, when, having exhausted all the opportunities for luxury Omaha had to offer, Anna and her party had taken a cab driver’s suggestion to check out the zoo. They hadn’t expected much, but then, while they were riding around on their golf carts, they’d stumbled on a private dinner hosted by Buffett for a slew of VIPs. “Everyone was there,” she said. “Like, Bill Gates was there.”

For a little while, they’d watched through the glass, then they’d slipped in and mingled among them.

When Anna got back to 11 Howard, she made her fury known. She was going to purchase web domains in all of the managers’ names, she told Neff, a trick she’d learned from Shkreli: “They’re going to pay me one day,” she said. Also, she was moving out — as soon as she got back from Morocco. Inspired by Khloé Kardashian, she’d reserved a $7,000-a-night riad with a private butler at La Mamounia, an opulent resort in Marrakech, and asked Neff if she wanted to join herself, the trainer, Rachel Williams, and a videographer, who she was hoping would make “a behind-the-scenes documentary” about the process of creating her arts foundation on a vacation. They’d wake up to massages, she said, and spend their days exploring the souk, lounging by the pool. Neff wanted to go, badly. But there was no way the hotel would let her take off eight days. “Just quit,” Anna said airily.

For a day or two, Neff considered it. But her mom told her she had a bad feeling about it. “Nothing in life is free,” she said. So Neff stayed behind, morosely following her friend’s journey on Instagram. “I was pretty jealous,” she said.

As she would find out, the pictures didn’t exactly tell the whole story. Two days in, after coming down with a nasty case of food poisoning, the trainer had gone back to New York early.

About a week later, the trainer got a call from Anna, who was alone at the Four Seasons in Casablanca and hysterical. There was, she sobbed, a problem with her bank. Her credit cards weren’t going through, and the hotel was threatening to call the police. After calming Anna down, the trainer asked to speak to management. “They were like, ‘She is going to be arrested,’” she said.

The trainer was torn: On the one hand, this was not her problem. On the other, Anna was her client, her friend, and someone’s daughter. Offering a prayer to the universe, the trainer gave the hotel her credit-card number and, when it failed to go through, made the requisite calls to her bank. When it still failed to go through, she went the extra mile: She called a friend and had her give her credit-card information. When that failed to work, the hotel conceded the problem might be on their end.

Later, the trainer would recognize this as a substantial gift from the Universe. At the time, she promised the hotel in Casablanca that Anna would make them whole. “Trust me,” she told them. “I know she’s good for it. I just spent two days with her in Marrakech.” When Anna came back on the phone, the trainer told her she was booking her a ticket back to New York. Anna snuffled her thanks. Then she asked for one last favor: “Can you get me first class?” she asked.

A few days later, a silvery Tesla pulled up in front of 11 Howard. Neff, at the concierge desk, felt her cell phone buzz. “Look out the window,” said a familiar German accent. The car’s futuristic doors slowly raised up to reveal Anna. “I’m here to get my stuff,” she said.

Anna was making good on her promise to leave 11 Howard. She was moving downtown to the Beekman Hotel, she told Neff, who watched her drive away in a car that she only later realized someone must have rented to her. Moving didn’t stem Anna’s mounting troubles. Not only did she owe the hotel, but, over in London, Marc Kremers, the designer she’d hired to do her branding work, was getting antsy: The ￡16,800 fee Anna had promised would arrive by wire almost a year before had yet to materialize, and now emails to Anna’s financial adviser, Peter W. Hennecke, were bouncing back. “Peter passed away last month,” Anna replied. “Please refrain from contacting or mentioning any communication with him going forward.”

In retrospect, her terseness was understandable. Things were rapidly deteriorating for Anna Delvey in New York. Twenty days into her stay, the Beekman Hotel, having realized it did not have a working credit card on file and having not received the promised wire transfer for her balance of $11,518.59, locked Anna out of her room and confiscated her belongings. A subsequent two-day stay at the W Hoteldowntown ended in a similar fashion, and by July 5, Anna was effectively homeless, wandering the streets in threadbare Alexander Wang sportswear.

Late one night, she made her way to the trainer’s apartment and dialed her from outside. “I’m right near your building,” she said. “Do you think we could talk?”

The trainer hesitated: She was in the middle of a date. But there was a desperate note in Anna’s voice. She made her way to her lobby, where she found Anna with tears streaming down her face. “I’m trying to do this thing,” she sobbed. “And it’s so hard.”

Maybe she should call her family, the trainer suggested. She would, Anna replied, but her parents were in Africa. “Do you mind if I crash at your place tonight?” No, the trainer said, she had a date.

“I really just don’t want be alone,” Anna sniffled. “I might do something.”

The date hid in the bedroom while the trainer made a bed for her unexpected houseguest and offered her a glass of water.

“Do you have any Pellegrino?” Anna asked. There was one large bottle left. Anna ignored the two glasses placed on the counter and began swilling from the bottle. “I’m so tired,” she yawned.

As Anna slept, the trainer’s spidey sense began to tingle. “I mean, I’m born and raised in New York,” she told me later. “I’m not stupid.” She texted Rachel Williams, who told her about what had happened at La Mamounia: Apparently, after the trainer returned to New York, the credit card Anna had used to book the hotel was found to be nonfunctional, and when Anna was unable to produce a new form of payment and a pair of threatening goons appeared in the doorway, the photo editor was forced to put the balance — $62,000, more than she was paid in a year — on the Amex she sometimes used for work expenses. Anna had promised her a wire transfer, but a month later, all Rachel received was $5,000, and her excuses had turned “Kafkaesque.”

The following morning, the trainer resolved to draw a clear boundary. After lending Anna a clean (and flattering) dress, she sent her on her way with a gratis motivational speech. But when Anna walked out the door, she left her laptop behind. The trainer was having none of it. She deposited the computer at the front desk and texted Anna that she could pick it up there.

That evening, the trainer got a call from her doorman. Anna was in the lobby. He’d told her that the trainer was out, at which point she’d asked for access to her suite. When he refused, Anna had resolved to wait for the trainer to return home.

“Let me know when she goes,” the trainer told the doorman.

But hours passed and Anna didn’t budge. “They were like, She’s still here. She’s texting,” the trainer recalls. “I was like, Oh my God, I’m a prisoner of my own house.” It wasn’t until after midnight that Anna finally left the building.

The relief the trainer felt soon turned into worry. “I started calling the hotels to see where she was staying, and each hotel was like, ‘This girl,’ she said.

She found out why later that month, when both the Beekman and the W Hotel filed charges against Anna for theft of services. WANNABE SOCIALITE BUSTED FOR SKIPPING OUT ON PRICEY HOTEL BILLS, blared the headline in the Post, which referenced an incident in which Anna attempted to leave the restaurant at Le Parker without paying. “Why are you making a big deal about this?” she’d protested to police. “Give me five minutes and I can get a friend to pay.”

But no friends arrived. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding, as Anna told Todd Spodek, the criminal attorney she hired to fight the misdemeanor charges. Maybe the poised young woman in the Audrey Hepburn dress who’d cold-called him on his cell phone repeatedly, insisting it was an emergency until he’d agreed to come into his office on a Saturday, really was a wealthy German heiress, he thought, as his 4-year-old pasted Paw Patrol stickers up one of Anna’s bare arms, and her credit cards had gotten jammed up, or someone had taken away her trust fund. Just in case, Spodek, whose everyday clientele includes grifters, dog-murderers, femme fatales, rapists, and cybercriminals, among other miscreants, had her sign a lien on all of her assets, one that would ensure he got paid. On her way out, Anna asked a favor. “I kind of need a place to stay,” she said. Spodek demurred. The last thing his wife wanted was for him to bring his work home with him.

Anna again got in touch with the trainer, who did not invite her to stay but instead organized an intervention at a nearby restaurant, during which she and Rachel Williams attempted to get answers: about why Anna had done what she’d done, who she really was, if she’d ever planned on paying anyone back. Anna hemmed and hawed and dissembled and prevaricated and, as the women got increasingly angry, allowed two fat tears to roll down her cheeks. “I’ll have enough to pay everyone,” she sniffled. “Once I get the lease signed …”

“Anna,” the trainer said, summoning her last shred of patience. “The building has been rented.”

She held up her iPhone and showed her the headline: FOTOGRAFISKA SIGNS A LEASE FOR ENTIRE 45K SF AT ABY ROSEN’S BUILDING.

“That’s fake news,” Anna said.

Is “Fotografiska really get the building?” sighed the tiny, accented voice after the recording identifying the call as coming from Rikers Island, where Anna Delvey, a.k.a. Anna Sorokin, has been remanded without bail since October 2017.

As it turned out, Anna’s hotel bills were merely the first loose threads in a web of fraudulent activity, one that began to unravel in November 2016, after she submitted documents claiming a net worth of €60 million in Swiss accounts to City National Bank in pursuit of a $22 million dollar loan. The following month, she submitted the same documents to Fortress in an attempt to secure a $25 million to $35 million loan. After that bank asked her for $100,000 to perform due diligence, she convinced a representative at City National to extend her a $100,000 line of credit, which she then wired to Fortress. Then, apparently spooked by Fortress’s decision to send representatives to Switzerland to personally check her assets, she withdrew herself from the process halfway through, wiring the remaining $55,000 to a Citibank account that she used for “personal expenses … shopping at Forward by Elyse Walker, Apple, and Net-a-Porter,” according to the New York District Attorney’s office. Then, in April, she deposited $160,000 worth of bad checks into the same account, managing to withdraw $70,000 before they were returned, which is how she managed to pay off 11 Howard and, ostensibly, buy Neff’s T-shirt and the domain names of the managers of the hotel. (“They called me down to the office. They said, ‘Neff, did you know about this?’ And I started dying laughing. I thought it was a boss move.”) In May, Anna convinced the company Blade to charter her a $35,000 jet to Omaha by sending them a forged confirmation for a wire transfer from Deutsche Bank. It might have helped that she had the business card of the CEO, whom she’d met in passing at Soho House but who says he didn’t actually know her at all. Not wanting to leave Anna homeless after their intervention last summer, the trainer and a friend agreed to put Anna up at a hotel for one night, after having the hotel remove the mini-bar and giving strict instructions not to allow her any room service. She subsequently checked in to the Bowery Hotel for two nights, sending the hotel a receipt for a wire transfer from Deutsche Bank that never came. Rachel Williams, City National, and others also received phony wire-transfer receipts, which a representative of the bank identified as forged. Anna’s “family adviser,” the late Peter W. Hennecke, seems to have been a fictional character; his cell-phone number belonged to a now-defunct burner phone from a supermarket, New York found. (A living Peter Hennecke did not return calls for comment.) Later in the summer, with her misdemeanor charges pending, Anna deposited two bad checks into an account at Signature Bank, netting her $8,200, which is how she managed to take what she said was a “planned trip” to California, where she was arrested outside of Passages in Malibu and brought back to New York to face six counts of grand larceny and attempted grand larceny, in addition to theft of services, according to the indictment. “I like L.A.,” she giggled when I visited her at Rikers this past March. “L.A. in the winter, New York in spring and autumn, and Europe in summer.”

People looked over curiously. “She’s like a unicorn in there,” Todd Spodek, Anna’s lawyer, had told me. “Everyone else is in there for like, stabbing their baby daddy.” He had mentioned that his client was taking incarceration unusually in stride, and indeed, this appeared to be the case.

“This place is not that bad at all actually,” Anna told me, eyes sparkling behind her Céline glasses. “People seem to think it’s horrible, but I see it as like, this sociological experiment.”

She’d made friends, of course. The murderers were the most interesting to her. “There are couple of girls who are here for financial crimes as well,” she told me. “This one girl, she’s been stealing other people’s identities. I didn’t realize it was so easy.”

Over the course of three months, I spoke to Anna over the phone and visited her several times, occasionally bringing her copies of Forbes, Fast Company, and The Wall Street Journal at her request. Clad in a beige jumpsuit, her $800 highlights faded and her $400 eyelash extensions long fallen away, she looked like a normal 27-year-old girl, which is what she is.

Anna Sorokin was born in Russia in 1991, and moved to Germany in 2007, when she was 16, with her younger brother and her parents, who, after being independently tracked down by and speaking with New York, asked to remain anonymous, as news of their daughters arrest has not yet reached the small rural community where they live.

Anna attended high school in Eschweiler, a small working-class town 60 kilometers outside Cologne, near the Belgian and Dutch border. Her classmates remember her as quiet, with an unwieldy command of German. Her father had worked as a truck driver and later as an executive at a transport company until it became insolvent in 2013, whereupon he opened a heating-and-cooling business specializing in energy-efficient devices. Anna’s father was circumspect about the family’s finances, possibly out of a not-unreasonable fear of being held responsible for his daughter’s debts, which it was suggested to New York multiple times are larger and more wide-ranging than officially documented. “She screwed basically everyone,” said the acquaintance in Berlin, who passed on the names of several individuals who were said to have had amounts large and small borrowed or stolen but were too embarrassed to come forward. (Also paranoid: “I heard she commissions these stories,” I was told more than once, after I reached out to alleged victims. “They’re strategic leaks.”)

In any case, according to Anna’s father: “Until now, we have never heard of any trust fund.”

That said, he went on, the family did support her to an extent after Anna graduated from high school in 2011. She moved first to London, where she attended Central Saint Martins College, then she dropped out and returned to Berlin, where she interned in the fashion department of a public-relations firm before relocating to Paris, where she landed a coveted internship at Purple magazine and became Anna Delvey. Her parents, who say they do not recognize the surname, told New York: “We always paid for her accommodations, her rent, and other matters. She assured us these costs were the best investment. If ever she needed something more at one point or another, it didn’t matter. The future was always bright.”

Anna, in jail, told me: “My parents had high expectations. They always trusted me with my decision-making. I guess they regret it now.”

Over the course of our conversations, Anna never admitted any guilt, although she did say she felt bad about what happened with Rachel Williams. “I am very upset that things went that way and I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. “But I really can’t do anything about it, being in here.”

She expressed frustration about not being able to bail herself out. “If they were doubting — ‘Oh, she can’t pay for anything’— why not give me bail and see?” she challenged. “If I was such a fraud, it would be such an easy resolution. Will she bail herself out?”

She was frustrated with the New York Post’s characterization of her as a “wannabe socialite” — “I was never trying to be a socialite,” she pointed out. “I had dinners, but they were work dinners. I wanted to be taken seriously” — and the District Attorney’s portrayal of her as, as Anna put it, “a greedy idiot” who had committed a kind of harebrained Ponzi scheme in order to go shopping. “If I really wanted the money, I would have better and faster ways to get some,” she groused. “Resilience is hard to come by, but not capital.”

She seemed most interested in expressing that her plans to create the Anna Delvey Foundation were real. She’d had all of those conversations and meetings and sent all of those emails and commissioned those materials because she thought it was actually going to happen. “I had what I thought was a great team around me, and I was having fun,” she said. Sure, she said, she might have done a few things wrong. “But that doesn’t diminish the hundred things I did right.”

Maybe it could have happened. In this city, where enormous amounts of invisible money trade hands every day, where glass towers are built on paperwork promises, why not? If Aby Rosen, the son of Holocaust survivors, could come to New York and fill skyscrapers full of art, if the Kardashians could build a billion-dollar empire out of literally nothing, if a movie star like Dakota Johnson could sculpt her ass so that it becomes the anchor of a major franchise, why couldn’t Anna Delvey? During the course of my reporting, people kept asking: Why this girl? She wasn’t superhot, they pointed out, or super-charming; she wasn’t even very nice. How did she manage to convince an enormous amount of cool, successful people that she was something she clearly was not? Watching the Rikers guard shove Fast Companyinto a manila envelope, I realized what Anna had in common with the people she’d been studying in the pages of that magazine: She saw something others didn’t. Anna looked at the soul of New York and recognized that if you distract people with shiny objects, with large wads of cash, with the indicia of wealth, if you show them the money, they will be virtually unable to see anything else. And the thing was: It was so easy.

“Money, like, there’s an unlimited amount of capital in the world, you know?” Anna said to me at one point. “But there’s limited amounts of people who are talented.”

Rachel 和 Anna

Rachel在名利場發(fā)表的原文：

“AS AN ADDED BONUS, SHE PAID FOR EVERYTHING”: MY BRIGHT-LIGHTS MISADVENTURE WITH A MAGICIAN OF MANHATTAN

BY RACHEL DELOACHE WILLIAMS

She walked into my life in Gucci sandals and Céline glasses, and showed me a glamorous, frictionless world of hotel living and Le Coucou dinners and infrared saunas and Moroccan vacations. And then she made my $62,000 disappear.

According to my closest friends and various suspect Internet sources, turning 29 on January 29, 2017 marked my golden birthday. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a gut feeling about my 30th year: it was going to be special; it was going to be good.

It was a total disaster.

It began with Anna. In her signature black athleisure wear and oversize Céline sunglasses, she sat beside me in the S.U.V., pecking at her phone. Seemingly everything she owned was packed into Rimowa suitcases and stacked in the trunk, just behind our heads. We were running late. Anna was always late. Our S.U.V. hummed along the cobblestones of Crosby Street as we drove from 11 Howard, the hotel Anna had called home for three months, to the Mercer, the hotel Anna planned to move into when we got back from our trip. The bellhops at the Mercer helped us to off-load her bags (all but one), and they checked them away to await Anna’s return. Our errand complete, we climbed back into the car and set off for J.F.K. two hours before our flight: we were Marrakech-bound.

Anna taking an iPhone photo during a daytrip to Kasbah Tamadot Sir Richard Bransons resort in Moroccos High Atlas...

Anna, taking an iPhone photo during a day-trip to Kasbah Tamadot, Sir Richard Branson’s resort in Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains. Anna returned for a stay at Kasbah Tamadot after leaving La Mamounia.

I first met Anna the year prior, in early 2016, at Happy Ending, a restaurant-lounge on Broome Street with a bistro on the ground floor, and a popular nightclub past the bouncer one flight down. I was with friends in the lounge downstairs. It was a group that I saw almost exclusively on nights out, fashion friends, whom I’d met since moving to the city in 2010. We walked in as the space was kicking into gear, not empty but not crowded. Young men and women made laps through machine-pumped fog, scouting for action and a place to settle in, as they sipped their vodka soda through plastic black straws. We made our way to the right and back, where the fog and people were denser and the music was louder.

I can’t remember which arrived first: the expectant bucket of ice and stack of glasses, or “Anna Delvey”—but I knew that she had appeared and with her came bottle service. She was a stranger to me, and yet not unknown. I’d seen her on Instagram, smiling at events, drinking at parties, oftentimes alongside my own friends and acquaintances. I’d seen that @annadelvey (since changed to @annadlvv) had 40K followers.

The new arrival, in a clingy black dress and flat Gucci sandals, slid into the banquette. She had a cherubic face with oversize blue eyes and pouty lips. Her features and proportions were classical—almost anachronistic—with a roundness that would suit Ingres or John Currin. She greeted me and her ambiguously accented voice was unexpectedly high-pitched.

Pleasantries led to discussion of how Anna first came into our friend group. She said she had interned for Purple magazine, in Paris (I’d seen her in photos with the magazine’s editor-in-chief), and evidently traveled in similar social circles. It was the quintessential nice-to-meet-you-in-New York conversation: hellos, exchange of niceties, how do you know X, what do you do for work?

I CAN’T REMEMBER WHICH ARRIVED FIRST: THE EXPECTANT BUCKET OF ICE AND STACK OF GLASSES, OR “ANNA DELVEY”—BUT I KNEW THAT SHE HAD APPEARED AND WITH HER CAME BOTTLE SERVICE.

“I work at Vanity Fair,” I told her. The usual dialogue ensued: “in the photo department,” I elaborated. “Yes, I love it. I’ve been there for six years.” She was attentive and engaged. She ordered another bottle of vodka. She picked up the tab.

Not long after we first met, I was invited to join Anna and a mutual friend for dinner at Harry’s, a steakhouse downtown, not far from my office. The vibe at Harry’s was distinctly masculine, fussy but not frilly, with leather seating and wood-paneled walls. Anna was there when I arrived, and the friend came a few minutes later. We were shown to our table, and my company ordered oysters and a round of espresso martinis. Conversation went along, as did the cocktails. I’d never had an espresso martini, but it went down just fine.

Anna told us huffily that she’d spent the day in meetings with lawyers. “What for?” I asked. She lit up. She was hard at work on her art foundation—a “dynamic visual-arts center dedicated to contemporary art,” she explained, referring vaguely to a family trust. She planned to lease the historic Church Missions House, a building on Park Avenue South and 22nd Street, to house a night lounge, bar, art galleries, studio space, restaurants, and a members-only club. In my line of work, I had often encountered ambitious, well-off individuals, so though her undertaking sounded grand in scale and promising in theory, my sincere enthusiasm hardly outweighed a measured skepticism.

For the rest of 2016, I saw Anna every few weekends. As a visiting German citizen, she’d explained, she didn’t have a full-time residence. She was living in the Standard, High Line, not far from my small apartment in Manhattan’s West Village. Anna intrigued me, and she seemed eager to be friends. I was flattered. I saw her on adventure-filled nights out, for drinks and sometimes dinner, usually with a group, but occasionally just the two of us. Towards autumn of that same year, Anna told me she was returning to Cologne, where she said she was from, just before the expiration of her visa.

Nearly half a year later, she came back.

On Saturday, May 13, 2017, we landed in Marrakech. Our hotel sent a V.I.P. service to greet us at the airport. We were escorted through Customs and taken to two awaiting Land Rovers. After a 10-minute drive, we pulled up to a palatial compound and entered through its gates. At the front entrance, we were welcomed by a host of men wearing fez caps and traditional Moroccan attire. We had arrived at our singularly opulent destination. Miss Delvey, our host, opted for a tour of the grounds for her and her guests. We proceeded directly, not having any need for keys or a traditional check-in procedure, since our villa was staffed with a full-time butler and, according to our host, all billing had been settled in advance.

The vacation was Anna’s idea. She again needed to leave the States in order to reset her ESTA visa, she said. Instead of returning home to Germany, she suggested we take a trip somewhere warm. It had been a long time since my last vacation. I happily agreed that we should explore options, thinking we’d find off-season fares to the Dominican Republic or Turks and Caicos. Anna suggested Marrakech; she’d always wanted to go. She picked La Mamounia, a five-star luxury resort ranked among the best in the world, and knowing that her selection was cost-prohibitive for my budget, she nonchalantly offered to cover my flights, the hotel, and expenses. She reserved a $7,000/night private riad, a traditional Moroccan villa with an interior courtyard, three bedrooms, and a pool, and forwarded me the confirmation e-mail. Due to a seemingly minor snafu, I’d put the plane tickets on my American Express card, with Anna promising to reimburse me promptly. Since I did this all the time for work, I didn’t give it a second thought.

Anna also invited a personal trainer, along with a friend of mine—a photographer—whom, at a dinner the week before our trip, Anna had asked to come as a documentarian, someone to capture video. She was thinking of making a documentary about the creation of her art foundation, and she wanted to experience what it felt like to have someone around with a camera. Plus, it’d be fun to have video from the trip, she said. I thought this was a bit ridiculous, but also entertaining, and why not? The four of us stayed in the private villa together. Anna and I shared the largest room.

We spent our first day and a half exploring all that La Mamounia had to offer. We roamed the gardens, relaxed in the hammam, swam in our villa’s private pool, took a tour of the wine cellar, and ate dinner to the intoxicating rhythms of live Moroccan music, before capping our night with cocktails in the jazzy Churchill bar. In the morning, Anna arranged for a private tennis lesson. We met her afterward for breakfast at the poolside buffet. Between adventures, our butler appeared, as if by magic, with fresh watermelon and chilled bottles of rosé.

Anna was no stranger to decadence. When she returned to N.Y.C. in early 2017, after months away, she checked into 11 Howard, a trendy hotel in SoHo. Her routine dinner spot became Le Coucou, winner of the James Beard Award for best new restaurant that same year, which was on the ground level of her hotel. Buckwheat fried Montauk eel to start and then the bourride: her dish of choice. She befriended the staff, and even the chef, Daniel Rose, who, upon her request, obligingly made off-the-menu bouillabaisse just for her. Dinners were accompanied by abundant white wine.

Her days were spent at meetings and on phone calls, often in her hotel. She regularly went to Christian Zamora for $400 full eyelash extensions, or $140 touch-ups here and there. She went to Marie Robinson Salon for color, Sally Hershberger for cuts. She toured multi-million-dollar apartments with over-eager realtors and chartered a private plane for a weekend trip to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual shareholders meeting in Omaha. All things in excess: she shopped, ate, and drank. Usually wearing a Supreme brand hoodie, workout pants, and sneakers, she embodied a lazy sort of luxury.

Anna checked into 11 Howard on a Sunday in February and that same day invited me to lunch. She’d texted me occasionally while she’d been gone, excited to get back and eager to catch up. I wondered if she kept in touch with other friends that way. She had a directness that could be off-putting and a sort of comical overconfidence that I found equal parts abhorrent and amusing. She isolated herself, and I felt privileged to be one of the few people whom she liked and trusted. Through past experiences, both personal and professional, I was casually accustomed to the lifestyle and quirks of moneyed people, though I had no trust fund or savings of my own. Her world wasn’t foreign to me—I was comfortable there—and I was pleased that she could tell, that she accepted me as someone who “got it.”

I met her at Mamo, on West Broadway. Anna had settled into the L-shaped booth closest to the door. Above her hung an oversize illustration of Lino Ventura and Jean-Paul Belmondo, both holding guns, floating above a dark cityscape. “ASFALTO CHE SCOTTA,” it read, in caps-locked Italian. She had come directly from the Apple Store, where she’d purchased a new laptop and two new iPhones—one for her international number and one for a new local number, she said. She ordered a Bellini, and I followed her lead.

When we finally left, it was almost five o’clock. We walked towards Anna’s hotel and she invited me in for a drink. We passed through 11 Howard’s modern lobby, heading straight for the steel spiral staircase to the left, which swooped twice around a thick column, rising to the floor above. On the second level, we entered a large living room called the Library.

The room’s design had distinctly Scandinavian overtones. My eyes scanned the setup and paused on a photograph that hung in a frame across from the concierge desk, a black-and-white image of an empty theater—part of a series by Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. Light emanated from a seemingly blank, rectangular movie screen, casting its glow out from the center of the composition onto the empty stage, seats, and theater. Sugimoto used a large-format camera and set his exposure to be the full length of a film, hoping to capture a movie’s thousands of still frames within a single image. The result was otherworldly. Looking at his work always reminded me of Shakespeare, a play within a play. It captured kinetic energy, portentous and alive with emotion and light. The viewing experience was meta and inverted: I was the audience, looking into an empty theater, beneath a blank screen. Anything was possible, or maybe it’d already happened. Maybe it was all already there.

After that day in February, Anna and I became fast friends. The world was charmed when she was around—the normal rules didn’t seem to apply. Her lifestyle was full of convenience, and its easy materialism was seductive. She began seeing a personal trainer and invited me to join. The sessions were her treat, as she generously insisted that working out was more fun with a friend. We went as frequently as three or four times a week, often ending our sessions with a visit to the infrared sauna.

I saw Anna most mornings. During the day, she’d text me frequently. After work, I’d stop by 11 Howard on my walk home. We’d regularly visit the Library for wine before going downstairs to Le Coucou for late dinners.

Anna did most of the talking. She held court, having befriended the hotel staff and servers, with me as her trusted adviser and loyal confidante. She would tell me about her meetings with restaurateurs, hedge-fund managers, lawyers, and bankers—and her frustration over delays with the lease signing. (She was set on the Church Missions House.) She mused about chefs she’d like to bring in, artists she esteemed, exhibitions that were opening. She was savvy. I felt a mixture of pity and admiration for Anna. She didn’t have many friends, and she wasn’t close with her family. She said that her relationship with her parents felt rooted more in business than in love. But she was strong. Her impulsivity and a sort of tactlessness had caused a rift between Anna and the friends through whom I’d met her, but I felt that I understood her and would be there for her when others were not.

Anna was a character. Her default setting was haughty, but she didn’t take herself too seriously. She was quirky and erratic. She acted with the entitlement and impulsivity of a once spoiled, seldom disciplined child—offset by a tendency to befriend workers rather than management, and to let slip the occasional comment suggesting a deeper empathy. (“It’s a lot of responsibility to have people working for you; people have families to feed. That’s no joke.”) In the male-dominated business world, she was unapologetically ambitious and I liked this about her.

She was audacious where I was reserved, and irreverent where I was polite. We balanced each other: I normalized her eccentric behavior, as she challenged my sense of propriety and dared me to have fun. As an added bonus, she paid for everything.

It was late on Monday afternoon, after almost two full days in La Mamounia’s walled palace. It was time to venture out. Anna wanted two things: piles of spices worthy of an Instagram photo and a place to buy some Moroccan kaftans. La Mamounia’s concierge arranged everything: within minutes we had a tour guide and set off with a car and driver. Our van came to a stop and we stepped out one by one, fresh from our sheltered resort life, into the dusty warmth of the medina’s mysterious maze.

“Can you make this dress, but with black linen?” Anna asked of a woman in Maison Du Kaftan. Before the woman could reply, Anna continued, “I’ll take one in black and one in white linen and, Rachel, I’d love to get one for you.” I scanned the store’s racks as Anna tried on a bright red jumpsuit and a range of gauzy sheer dresses. I tried on a few things but, wary of the iffy fabric content and high prices, I soon joined the videographer and trainer in the shop’s seating area for glasses of mint tea. Anna went to pay. Her debit card was declined.

“Did you tell your banks that you were traveling?” I asked. “No,” was her reply. Then I wasn’t surprised that such a purchase would be flagged. Anna asked to borrow money, promising to reimburse me the following week. I agreed, careful to keep track of the receipt. We wandered the medina until dusk. Back in the van, we went directly to La Sultana for dinner. I paid for that, too, adding it to my “tab.”

On Tuesday, we were walking through La Mamounia’s lobby, leaving for a visit to the Jardin Majorelle, when a hotel employee waved Anna to a stop. “Miss Delvey, may we speak with you?” he said, as he tactfully pulled her aside. “Is everything O.K.?” I asked, when she rejoined the group. “Yes,” Anna reassured me. “I just need to call my bank.”

The next morning, I, too, was stopped as I passed through the lobby: “Miss Williams, have you seen Miss Delvey?” I sent Anna to the concierge. She was agitated by the inconvenience. You could always tell when Anna was agitated: she made almost comical huffy noises (“ugh, why!”) and typed furiously on her phone. She left the villa and came back shortly after, ostensibly relieved that the situation was being resolved.

We set off on a day trip to the Atlas Mountains and returned to Marrakech after dinner that same evening, re-entering La Mamounia through the main lobby. Two men stepped forward as Anna approached. They pulled her aside and she sat down to make a call, as the videographer and I lingered awkwardly to the side. (The trainer was sick in bed for the second day in a ro

說在前面：我逛了一下IMDB，看到一篇影評，又刷新了我對于劇里劇外Anna的認(rèn)知，特此搬運翻譯一下這篇影評，如有侵權(quán)，請及時告知。

以下是正文（標(biāo)題如上）：

Netflix支付給Anna Sorokin，本劇的核心詐騙犯32萬美元用于購買其故事的版權(quán)。Sorokin用這筆錢償還了她從銀行盜竊的資金，以及她欠紐約州的一些罰款。接著，她參加了大大小小的脫口秀或是其他綜藝以繼續(xù)出名。

在我撰寫這篇影評的時候，她正在等待被遣返回德國，但罹患新冠阻礙了這一進(jìn)程。美國海關(guān)認(rèn)為她是故意患病以呆在美國更久，畢竟，Anna本就是個騙子。

因此，為了讓我們這些普羅大眾明白反社會人格和好萊塢的運作模式，（被詐騙的）銀行又重新通過Anna的故事版權(quán)獲得了補償，然而，在Anna詐騙過程中用的那些普通人的信用卡和銀行賬戶仍然沒有得到補償。盡管紐約州有山姆之子法律條文（譯者注：禁止以盈利為目的出版罪犯的犯罪回憶錄）的存在，通過Shonda Rimes撰寫的這個劇本，Anna仍然變成了一個“非主流主角”并通過她的罪行獲利。當(dāng)我們看這部劇的時候，我們正在幫助一個反社會者牟利。

詐騙是騙子的本質(zhì)。

Julia Garner對Anna的詮釋很棒，但她的口音讓我想砸了我的電視。Shonda呈現(xiàn)給了我們一個迷人的劇本。但這部劇的意義究竟是什么，只是為了拍某種OJ（譯者注：OJ Simpson案是美國歷史上最轟動的案子，有相關(guān)紀(jì)錄片及改編美?。叭绻易隽恕币暯堑姆缸飭幔?/p>

我不喜歡拔高騙子地位的想法，尤其是我不喜歡因為她只詐騙富人所以她的詐騙行為沒有問題的想法。詐騙就是詐騙。

她不是羅賓漢。她只是個小偷。

網(wǎng)飛首頁推薦的封面上，女主角Julia Garner戴著Anna Delvey標(biāo)志性的黑框眼鏡，頭發(fā)蓬松分叉——這正是我當(dāng)年在鋪天蓋地的媒體報道上對這個紐約騙子名媛的第一印象——她的發(fā)質(zhì)如同她的氣質(zhì)一般發(fā)毛。

我本來對這一類社交八卦就不太感冒，所以從未細(xì)讀新聞內(nèi)容，只是隱隱覺得這個連假姓氏都既不德國也不貴族的25歲小姑娘，能騙倒紐約上層社交圈，接觸到的應(yīng)該是社交圈里不太入流的new money。簡而言之，沒有底蘊識破她牽強附會的貴族背景；沒有智力解讀她不甚高明的自我包裝；沒有眼界看穿她似是而非的編造伎倆。然而，這部以記者Vivian揭露事件真相的過程為切入點的9集網(wǎng)劇，做足了功夫，把一個看似“狗血”的騙子故事（基于事實）講得里應(yīng)外合，高潮迭起，層層反轉(zhuǎn)，這主要歸功于編劇的結(jié)構(gòu)布局——每一集側(cè)重于一個當(dāng)事人的敘述視角——雖然因人物參與程度不同，偶有拖沓、注水的嫌疑——總體來說，為這個關(guān)于一個女騙子的故事提供了context（背景，語境），即為什么全球最“高大上”的曼哈頓社交圈會被這么一個初出茅廬的德國移民二代騙得團(tuán)團(tuán)轉(zhuǎn)，甚至連華爾街最“精明”的金融律師都在劫難逃。

全劇看完，不難發(fā)現(xiàn)，Anna在曼哈頓富人圈混得風(fēng)生水起的主要原因就是：她很擅長融入。這種融入表面上看，是她坑蒙拐騙來的，比如偽造德國貴族背景，吹牛皮說有6千萬美金的信托基金等著自己一到25歲就能兌現(xiàn)，明明是花別人錢、住別人豪宅、搭別人私人飛機和豪華游艇的leech（水蛭），卻能心態(tài)自如，漫不經(jīng)心，甚至對不夠VVIP的待遇嗤之以鼻，直到所有被抱的大腿棄她而去，她也并未氣餒妥協(xié)，而是進(jìn)一步靠編織更彌天的謊言（選址牛逼的大樓，創(chuàng)建以自己名字命名的基金會，號稱要做全球最高端的藝術(shù)、奢侈、富豪俱樂部），以期獲得4千萬美金的銀行貸款……故事到了這里，Anna已經(jīng)不是騙吃騙喝的小屁孩，如《天才普瑞利》那樣從生活方式層面過幾天富豪的日子，或是如《貓鼠游戲》那般縱橫天下，瀟灑揮霍，因為她自從有了華爾街資深金融律師的加持，那4千萬美金的銀行貸款居然并非天方夜譚。如果最后Anna可以證明自己確實有那個所謂的德國家族信托基金，是否貴族根本無關(guān)緊要，之前的諸項欠款會得到解決，惡意透支信用卡也不過是有錢人對錢“毫不在意”的風(fēng)度使然——也就是說，如果Anna真的有金錢后盾，不管這錢是俄羅斯黑手黨的，或是別的什么灰色來路，憑借她的“融入”手腕，她都可以在曼哈頓富豪圈占有一席之地。

似乎，這才是本劇的核心宗旨：在“高大上”的紐約，本來就充斥了各種騙子，每個人都是hustler，每個人都want something——記者想要的不僅是挖掘真相，更是依靠流量置頂?shù)奈恼聤Z回自己失去的事業(yè)；前男友想要的不僅是一段關(guān)系，更是靠著理想投射中的貴族富豪女友，從中產(chǎn)階級步步高升；金融律師想要的不僅是大筆傭金，更是人到中年的激情回春與權(quán)勢的無限擴張；就連《名利場》的編輯、酒店前臺、私人教練這三朵塑料姐妹花，也都各懷企圖，她們更像我們這些普通人，有著正常的慕強心理，也經(jīng)常在虛榮心與廉恥心之間艱難徘徊。

Anna的所作所為雖然不可取，但她為了金錢和地位的不擇手段，那股狠勁和巧勁，正是紐約的靈魂所在，她很聰明地窺視到了紐約的靈魂（"She took a look at the soul of New York"），發(fā)現(xiàn)這太契合自己了。本片英文名是Inventing Anna，這恐怕有兩層含義：第一層是Anna的self-invention，這個詞在英文語境中有著奮發(fā)圖強、改寫命運的褒義含義；第二層是紐約的大環(huán)境促成了Anna的self-invention。我們別忘了，當(dāng)Anna第一次離開德國老家，先去了倫敦中央圣馬丁，遂即輟學(xué)來到巴黎，而后又輾轉(zhuǎn)到了紐約。這三座城市是全球最頂尖的時尚中心（可見Anna對時尚的追求從未改變），同時，它們也都是老牌的資本主義中心，但紐約與其他兩座城的不同之處在于，它沒有太多的帝國主義痕跡，紐約的核心是金錢和利益，而血統(tǒng)和出身倒在其次。

作為一個在紐約、洛杉磯、倫敦、柏林都居住過的觀眾，我可以佐證的一點是，Anna的發(fā)質(zhì)和口音都注定她不可能在歐洲混得開?？墒羌~約呢？紐約是最大膽的騙子能混得最開的地方。

或許，Anna原本甚至有一天可以成為美國總統(tǒng)。

從這個角度來說，Julia Garner的表演基于真實人物的特性，至少可以打8分。如果觀眾覺得，如此浮夸的演技不可能接近真實，那么只能說，我們對真實的理解還很膚淺。

朱曉聞

2022年2月于柏林

關(guān)注薩爾維亞之藍(lán)（Salvia_Blue）這里沒有最有價值的觀點，也沒有最領(lǐng)先的想法，最有價值的觀點在歷史中重復(fù)了千百遍，最領(lǐng)先的想法是經(jīng)獨立思考分析的結(jié)晶。這里有的是看似被遺忘的，鮮為人知的，極為小眾的有趣的人、物、事。

Salvia_Blue

郊區(qū)的監(jiān)獄里，有一位女子，與周圍格格不入。

她戴著黑框眼鏡，邏輯清晰，談吐優(yōu)雅。

有人嗤之以鼻，她就是紐約第一女騙子；

也有人堅信不疑，她家財萬貫，是上億資產(chǎn)的繼承人。

而她自己卻說，錢對我來說不是問題，信不信由你。

她就是——虛構(gòu)安娜

*以下內(nèi)容為真實事件與劇情相結(jié)合，少部分為劇集杜撰

她叫安娜·索羅金，另一個更廣為人知的名字，叫安娜·德爾維。

她是“德爾維”家族的繼承人，父親希望她能自力更生，便在她名下設(shè)立了6000萬歐元的信托基金。

只要她年滿26歲，就能自由支配這筆錢。

而安娜的社交平臺，也充滿著富二代的奢靡氣息——

游走時尚秀場，穿梭藝術(shù)畫廊，跨界名流峰會。

無處不在的高端奢侈品，數(shù)不盡的上流派對，還有與她親密合影的富豪貴族、時尚名流，甚至不乏商界大拿的身影。

整個紐約的富豪名流圈里，似乎就沒有安娜不認(rèn)識的人，走到哪里都能聽見她的名字。

安娜還和一般只會揮霍玩樂的富二代們不同，她有著自己的事業(yè)：以自己的名字來命名的基金會。

在基金會初創(chuàng)階段，安娜憑借廣泛的人脈，組建了基金會的核心成員。

并通過詳細(xì)的商業(yè)計劃書，成功說服銀行投資人為她作擔(dān)保，向國家城市銀行申請了2200萬美元的貸款，并且拿到了高達(dá)20萬美元的信貸額度。

從始至終，沒有一個人懷疑過安娜的真實身份，直到她因為涉嫌詐騙鋃鐺入獄。

為了挖掘安娜的故事，《曼哈頓》的女記者耗費了幾個月的時間，從社交平臺到辯護(hù)資料，再到安娜住過的酒店、交往過的人群進(jìn)行詳細(xì)的采訪取材。

這位傳奇女子的神秘面紗，終于被揭開——

令人大跌眼鏡的是，安娜并不是什么坐擁上億遺產(chǎn)的富二代。

她的父親是貨車司機，母親是家庭主婦，家中還有一個弟弟，非常普通的家庭。

作為俄羅斯移民，16歲才到德國生活學(xué)習(xí)的她，并不受待見。

傳聞中的那些富豪身世，全都是假的！

實在讓人震驚。

安娜到底是怎么融入紐約名流圈，又是怎樣讓富豪名流們對她的滿口胡言深信不疑，甚至心甘情愿被騙的？

這一切都離不開最關(guān)鍵的兩個字，“人設(shè)”。

從小，安娜就流露出對時尚的興趣與關(guān)心，在高中畢業(yè)之后，便到倫敦中央圣馬丁學(xué)院進(jìn)行學(xué)習(xí)。

然而待了沒多久，安娜就從圣馬丁退學(xué)，在柏林的一家公關(guān)公司實習(xí)。

隨后，她又輾轉(zhuǎn)去了巴黎，拿到了在法國時尚雜志《Purple》實習(xí)的機會。

也正是在《Purple》實習(xí)的那段時間里，讓安娜有了接觸時尚、藝術(shù)和名流的機會。

現(xiàn)實中安娜·索羅金的日常

在最能夠一眼辨別暴發(fā)戶和網(wǎng)紅的時尚人士看來，安娜的品味是獨一無二的。

她總能很精準(zhǔn)地抓到“品味”的精髓，不管是穿著、談吐、行為舉止，甚至細(xì)節(jié)到去哪里吃什么樣的菜，該點什么年份區(qū)域的紅酒。

安娜渾身上下散發(fā)著“上流社會”的氣息。

在真正的名媛眼里，安娜和她們就是同一類人。

“不試圖給人留下深刻印象，不畏懼，不在乎，而且對藝術(shù)很有品味?！?/span>

安娜時常輾轉(zhuǎn)于各大畫廊藝術(shù)展中，在無意中與名流大家們分享自己對于藝術(shù)的見解。

一旦碰上同道中人，便很快能與對方結(jié)成友誼。

對于時尚與藝術(shù)的獨到見解，是安娜躋身名流社會的第一塊敲門磚。

當(dāng)安娜擁有了這些“人脈”與“朋友”，便要最大程度地利用這些資源。

首先是社交平臺。

安娜通過社交平臺留下了與各種名流的合影，并親密地標(biāo)記對方的名字，不斷對自己是貴族繼承人的形象進(jìn)行印象加深。

與此同時，社交平臺上也不乏各種藝術(shù)展覽、旅游度假的照片，甚至搭乘私人飛機、豪華郵輪，讓越來越多的人對她編造的身世深信不疑。

人設(shè)已經(jīng)搭建成功，安娜便開始了自己的新一步擴張。

通過“我和某某名流認(rèn)識”、“某某名流是我的朋友”這樣的搭橋牽線，安娜開始擠進(jìn)更高層次的圈層。

她有了一個新的名號：創(chuàng)業(yè)。

安娜不斷地利用女性崛起和創(chuàng)業(yè)熱情來大做文章，強調(diào)家族雖然有錢，但是希望她能夠獨立自主，所以她需要靠自己的努力來創(chuàng)業(yè)，獲得更多人的支持與引薦。

和其他只懂得享受的富二代不同，安娜對于創(chuàng)業(yè)的熱情，吸引了一部分投資人的青睞。

與此同時，當(dāng)時安娜的男友蔡斯正處于創(chuàng)業(yè)失敗階段，她利用了蔡斯的失敗，向蔡斯的引薦人諾拉告發(fā)，將諾拉的資源順到了自己的陣營里。

之前因人際網(wǎng)絡(luò)不夠龐大而四處碰壁的安娜，順利地將建筑師、收藏家、地產(chǎn)大亨都納入了自己創(chuàng)業(yè)團(tuán)隊中，形成了一份“完美”的商業(yè)計劃。

要想啟動這份計劃，便需要通過融資貸款來實現(xiàn)。

起初，她也和所有創(chuàng)業(yè)人士一樣，提交商業(yè)計劃書，試圖說服投資人艾倫為她擔(dān)保貸款。

但不管她說得再怎么天花亂墜，艾倫從她的項目里看不到利益，也無法對這樣一個年輕人產(chǎn)生信賴，便拒絕了她。

多次碰壁之后，安娜找到了新的出路：

先改變自己的形象，她不再是一個出入時尚派對的富二代，而是頭腦清晰的女企業(yè)家。

戴了眼鏡，換了更為深沉的色調(diào)搭配，搖身一變商界人士。

接著，她試圖尋找著艾倫身上的弱點：他有一個女兒。

好巧不巧，艾倫的女兒就跟所有紈绔子弟一樣，不學(xué)無術(shù)，天天只想著花家里的錢。

安娜對創(chuàng)業(yè)充滿熱情的姿態(tài)，逐漸點燃了艾倫的生活激情。

當(dāng)然最重要的，還是利益。

安娜施加了一些簡陋的伎倆，像是購買虛假電話卡、變聲裝備，為她的假身份提供更為真實的驗證，讓艾倫相信她所提供作為擔(dān)保物的信托基金沒有任何問題。

甚至在承銷商要求交出10萬美金的保證金時，艾倫用自己的判斷作為擔(dān)保，替安娜向國民城市銀行申請到了20萬美金的信用額度。

艾倫堅信，這是一筆“能夠吃到死”的生意，在做到全球擴張之前，他就能吃下超過兩億美元。

就算現(xiàn)在安娜無法馬上拿出錢來，但也都是遲早的事。

故事看到這里，不禁讓人有了一種錯覺：

這不是一個女騙子的行騙故事，而更像是一個女企業(yè)家的血淚創(chuàng)業(yè)史。

然而，最關(guān)鍵的問題在于——

安娜的錢都從哪里來的？

她用了一個很聰明的辦法，以小博大。

一開始，安娜剛踏入名流社交圈時，豪擲千金，用高奢衣服和消費來包裝自己。

就連給小費，一般人最多10美金，但安娜都是100美金起步。

當(dāng)認(rèn)識的有錢人越來越多，安娜便以自己只有現(xiàn)金、或者只能匯款為由，讓對方提前幫自己刷卡墊付。

和男友蔡斯戀愛時，住酒店、吃飯、逛街，刷的都是蔡斯的卡；

幫諾拉到買手店取衣服、記賬消費、招待朋友時，將自己的消費記在諾拉名下，或者直接刷諾拉交給她的信用卡。

就連預(yù)約私人飛機，也是借用投資人的名號，一分錢都沒付，敷衍幾句趕時間便坐上了私人飛機。

也正因為她騙的都是有錢人，有錢人們都理所當(dāng)然地覺得，安娜沒有理由會欠他們錢不還，便心安理得地替她先行付款。

就算發(fā)現(xiàn)被騙了，有錢人們也礙于面子，而選擇不了了之。

甚至其中還有不少人直到安娜入獄，他們才意識到自己被騙了。

唯一一位不停向安娜追討欠款的，是《名利場》的一位女記者瑞秋。

和安娜成為朋友之后，為了表現(xiàn)出自己的闊綽，大多數(shù)時候，安娜都不會讓瑞秋付錢。

不管是美容、購物還是吃飯，安娜都會主動為瑞秋掏腰包。

然而就在她們一同結(jié)伴去摩洛哥游玩的時候，安娜的信用卡刷不了了，便只好讓瑞秋墊付了六萬多美金的消費。

對于一般的有錢人來說，可能這并不算什么錢。

但對于瑞秋而言，這相當(dāng)于她一年的工資，還刷爆了她的信用卡。

為了追討回這一筆欠款瑞秋便把安娜騙錢的故事發(fā)表在了《名利場》上，并向警方報案。

與此同時，安娜也由于不斷在各個酒店吃霸王餐、逃酒店錢，被警方正式逮捕。

安娜因被身負(fù)四項“重大詐騙”罪名，被判4到12年有期徒刑，罰款19.9萬元和2.4萬。

長達(dá)四年的紐約第一假名媛詐騙案，就此劃下句號。

直到被保釋出獄、這部以她為主人公的劇集播出，她依然在利用著世界的有錢人們。

每次庭審，安娜都精心打扮自己，甚至找了設(shè)計師為自己設(shè)計“出庭造型”，也會因為對造型不滿意而拒絕出庭。

安娜在庭審上的“時裝秀”，一度還成為社交平臺的熱門話題。

*與日本女殺人犯木嶋佳苗的“庭審搭配”如出一轍

在監(jiān)獄里的安娜，也忙著寫自己在紐約的回憶錄，還打算將自己在監(jiān)獄里的生活撰寫出書。

而她的這段詐騙故事，以32萬美元賣給了網(wǎng)飛，拍成了這部劇集。

庭審中的安娜·索羅金

安娜的人生，確實是一出極其精彩的戲劇。

她深諳名流社交，掌握了游戲規(guī)則，強勢的氣場和自信的談吐讓她在真正的有錢人們面前也顯得十分突出。

她制造了一種“世界唯我獨尊”的存在感，這也是有錢人們的通病。

當(dāng)別人對上流社會仰望不已、俯首稱臣的時候，安娜以更高貴的姿態(tài)一腳踏入，打破了名流們的固有思維習(xí)慣。

即便安娜的詐騙手法并不高級，更有著肉眼可見的漏洞百出，但“當(dāng)局者迷”。

安娜的演技已經(jīng)卓越到，連她自己都活在預(yù)設(shè)的虛假之中。

在被捕之前，安娜疑似服藥自殺，被送入了醫(yī)院。

在醫(yī)院里，即便她的謊言被揭穿，她卻把所有的罪責(zé)推給了自己臆想中的“原生家庭”——

爸爸是黑幫，不僅家暴，自己因為是俄羅斯移民，還收受到各種歧視……等等。

然而在調(diào)查過后，平凡又普通的藍(lán)領(lǐng)家庭，并不能為安娜的犯罪而背鍋。

在很多殘忍的案件背后，總是充斥著對原生家庭的控訴。

但像安娜這樣的現(xiàn)實故事卻在告訴我們，基因與環(huán)境，并不是讓一個人“變壞”的絕對因素。

安娜的性格扭曲與自命不凡，來自于她對于命運的不服，還有對金錢與名利的偏執(zhí)。

她所渴望的，早已不僅僅是錢，是那種萬人擁戴、受人追捧的虛榮感。

被安娜所欺騙的人們，可以追回錢財，斷絕往來；

然而唯有她自己，深陷在親手布下的騙局，永生難逃。

*本文作者：D

我看到的安娜就是一個不高明的騙子，不管電視劇多么努力地想去把這個姑娘塑造成一個劫富濟貧的復(fù)雜人物，她還是一個徹頭徹尾的騙子，而且騙得一點技術(shù)含量都沒有。這和男女無關(guān)。一直強調(diào)男女之間的區(qū)別，讓我作為女權(quán)都覺得扯淡。男人犯了錯不需要負(fù)責(zé)嗎？不是的，那是因為安娜并沒有騙大批資金，二十萬美元對于這些公司來說只是小數(shù)目，艾倫也只不過付出了一些工時而已。事務(wù)所讓艾倫升職把這事兒遮過去也不是為了他個人，而是為了事務(wù)所的聲譽，這也和男女沒什么關(guān)系。

安娜是男的就能成功了嗎？是，電視劇里面有個銀行家要性騷擾安娜，當(dāng)然對她出手是那個銀行家的錯，但是這是私德問題啊，安娜被銀行卡著不給錢已經(jīng)說得很清楚了，她的信托基金審核不通過。就我看來，安娜只不過就是混圈子的一個小女生而已，她所謂的工作，所謂的努力，就是不停地見有錢人，忽悠有錢人，宣傳她那個非常高大上但同時也很模糊的idea，實在看不到她的努力，至少編劇要讓我看到她熬夜寫ppt吧。更何況她身邊最親近的不是勢利眼就是騙子，根本沒什么干實在事兒的人，要藝術(shù)家沒藝術(shù)家，要技術(shù)骨干沒技術(shù)骨干，最后卡在銀行這里，讓人感覺她真是該啊，這不卡你卡誰。那些曼哈頓雜志的記者還對安娜騙了一架飛機大呼小叫的，感覺真的沒必要啊，行業(yè)資深記者什么大陣仗沒見過，一群老頭老太還這么驚訝，感覺就是編劇在那兒硬捧安娜，看著挺無力的。