The last time I had dinner with Armie Hammer, he drove us up Pacific Coast Highway in his black pickup truck and ordered mutton shank at a Greek spot in Malibu. That was November 2017, Call Me by Your Name was about to open and the world was his. He was 31, absurdly handsome, resistant of the label “movie star” — and bracing for something on the horizon.

“Given my history,” he told me that afternoon, referring to a string of box office disappointments, “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

The shoe dropped. What followed was one of the most total and public collapses of a Hollywood career in recent history. The scandal consumed him so completely that for a stretch, he was living in a 200-square-foot hole of a flat in Venice Beach, paying for groceries with a debit card a friend had pressed into his hand. He went to the Cayman Islands. He built a farm. He carried a burner flip phone he bought at a gas station. He got no work for five years.