Liz Sherman ist die Angebetete von Hellboy und in der Lage durch ihren Willen Feuer zu erzeugen...
Selma Blair, geboren am 23. Juni 1972, spielte u.a. in "Natürlich blond!"
und "Super süß und super sexy"...
Interviews mit Selma Blair
Dark Horizons (23.03.2004)
Dark Horizons (17.01.2003)
Sci Fi Wire (15.01.2003)
"Certain things they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone. I know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway."
CATCHER IN THE RYE
29 years old, 5" 5" Weight: 100 lbs. Hair: Raven black.
LIKES: "Sentimental Education," by Flaubert. George Tooker paintings. Some Thomas Cole landscapes. The Beatles' White Album. Cold, fresh sheets, a big pillow, almonds, pine nuts and pistachios, trail mix, washing her hands, bathing, long, hot showers, the smell of clean hair, flannel shirts, antique jewelry. Fire. Yup - unfortunately she does love fire. Big sweaters. Silent films. Especially Chaplin and especially "City Lights", kids, watching them at play. Looking at the moon for long periods of time. Being alone with her eyes closed. Churches and cats - everything about them, except "the worship thing." Snow falling, fog. Really soggy cold cereal. Her big, tomboy leather boots, the smell of wet pavement, the aroma of pancakes and syrup, the promise and clarity of rain-washed sky. Watching the pavement as she walks (she's found a few pennies), keeping her hands in her pockets and her head covered by a hood. She loves to dissolve communion wafers in her mouth and thinks that it makes her purer - plus they taste really good.
DISLIKES: Crowds, parties, being recognized, surprise visits, gifts (giving them or receiving them), nightfall, sleepless nights. Enya, Michael Bolton, Kenny G. The smell of air fresheners, the scent of incense. Being looked in the eye by strangers.
BIOGRAPHY by Guillermo del Toro:
There are a few things you should know about Liz: She grows real quiet when she's nervous, she can stare at the ceiling for hours and not be bored. She can throw snowballs like the best big-league pitcher. Every time she tastes vanilla ice cream she cries for hours. Just like that, for no good reason. And she likes it. Why? Because crying feels like a normal thing people do.
And there are precious few things normal about her.
Robert and Diane Sherman got married three years after meeting while standing on line to see The Godfather. He was an efficiency expert and she was a chef. Liz was born when theaters were showing The Godfather Pt. II.
Liz didn't speak a single word until she turned four. Her mom took her to see several specialists and they all concurred: mentally, all cylinders were firing. One evening, while out to dinner, Mom called the baby-sitter. She was informed that Liz was talking. "What is she saying," asked Mom. "Everything," was the succinct answer. And she was. Liz Sherman went from totally silence to full articulation in a single evening.
They moved around. Quite a bit. Her father streamlined processes (whatever that meant) for big companies like Lear or Lockheed. Kansas City, Chicago, D.C.... Liz had trouble making friends. She was too intense, too intelligent and too aware. None of it jibed with the laid back late 70's. And then, there was the fire.
At the age of 7, Liz's bed and one of her Teddy Bears presented strange scorched patches. Round, perfectly delimited areas were burnt to a crisp, but nothing more.
Her room was examined for short circuits. No answer was found. Liz, however, volunteered a small fact: she dreamt of fire that night.
The occurrence repeated itself a few more times, always during her sleep, always in limited areas. Her parents started worrying. So did the principal at her school.
One morning after gym class, several volley balls exploded inexplicably. Liz was the only one around.
The Catholic Church was not much help either. Father Jones had given Liz a small crucifix to wear around her neck. It didn't keep her safe for long. Her hands burst into flame when two girls chased her after school. Scared, Liz plunged them into a vat of water, but the fire raged on.
A store owner called the paramedics and the fire department, but by the time they arrived all they found was a little girl crying on the street. Moving came in handy after that. New schools took a while to get records and - most of the time - the family was soon gone after that.
Liz's mom and dad fell out of love along the way and had terrible fights almost every day. They were careful at first, trying not to upset her, but - as these things go - they eventually didn't care enough to pretend things were OK.
They separated and to their credit never blamed Liz. But she knew. She felt the guilt every time her mother cried alone in the living room, TV at full blast. One Christmas, at age 10, she got a small Instamatic camera from her dad and started photographing everything around her. "Things stay still in pictures," she thought. "Not in real life."
>From then on, her private albums filled up with mundane images that became beautiful as soon as they were pinned and mounted.
She became quite good at taking pictures and even won a prize at school. Her mom was proud and so was she.
But then the world caught fire.
It is unfair that memories yield only sketchy details of some of our most tragic moments. Liz doesn't remember what she was wearing that day. Every time she dreams about it, the dress is different. She can't even pinpoint her exact position in the building's courtyard. Forensic investigators could, but not her. It was the day that changed everything.
The day she burned a courtyard full of people and damaged property a quarter of a mile around. The day most car alarms went off in the outskirts of Detroit. The facts and speculations are in the public record, but the true cause, and the most intimate grief, lies within the heart of the sole survivor: Elizabeth Sherman.
The many "What ifs" and "What if nots" grow tenfold when your mother's death is the direct result of your actions. Now imagine that happening at the age of 11. Liz went from institution to institution, even managing to escape for a few years at a time. Living in the streets, learning the value of being alone and the tough code of self-reliance.
And still, inside her, there was a basic need, a tragic void that burned away with an interrupted childhood and that became almost impossible to fill afterward.
Professor Broom met Liz at age 17 in a halfway house in Portland. Their interview was brief. In less than 30 minutes she agreed to join the BPRD. It would become apparent that she had dismissed his offer as pure baloney, and that her sole interest was to get out and make a run for the street.
It was impressive then, when the fire-proof truck showed up, surrounded by FBI agents.
The BPRD revealed to her that there were others - if not just like her - equally at odds with normality. Her pyrokinetic abilities seemed to line up with all sorts of empathic abilities needed in the paranormal field. By all accounts, Liz was soon quite the star at the Bureau.
Yet, every night, once alone in the confines of her fire-proof quarters, she would inevitably feel that she was simply postponing her real task in life: to join the "Big Out There."
So, she quit about a dozen times and was wooed back just as often. You see? No matter where she went, the Federal government had to keep tabs on her. She was classified a National Security Threat and was the only walking weapon of mass destruction with the bruised ego of an 11 year old girl.
Through the years, Liz found solace in Hellboy. They loved the same silent movies, the same odd cartoons and could spend hours just watching that screen flicker in total silence.
Many a night Liz would simply fall asleep by HB's couch, her head leaning on his massive chest.
He always stood by her out in the field. And it's hard to feel unsafe when a 6'9" wall of red muscle walks by your side.
Hellboy would die for her, and she knew that. And, as a matter of fact, many times, he almost did. But there was a primary obstacle, an impossible block that prevented her from articulating her feelings for him as anything more than friendship. To love is to abandon oneself and she was far from doing that for anyone. Not herself, not him. Not anyone.
And yet, maybe everything would have turned kind of okay if it hadn't been for "The Pittsburgh Incident", that is...
2002, BRADDOCK TOWN, PA.
An abandoned steel town outside of Pittsburgh. Six BPRD agents enter the shell of a foundry. Demonic entities in the basement take possession of several of the agent's bodies. They fight back. So does Liz, but something is triggered inside her that cannot be contained. In spite of her warnings and the swift reaction of everybody around her, a mile wide explosion takes place. Only two survivors: Liz and Hellboy. Publicly, Liz is charged as an arson suspect. The cover works and the investigation is quickly buried. Nevertheless, Liz feels it is time to go. This time is harder. Both for her and Hellboy. This time she has him on her mind.
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