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虚构安娜

Inventing Anna,假造安娜,创造安娜

主演:朱莉娅·加纳,安娜·克拉姆斯基,拉弗恩·考克斯,凯蒂·洛斯,Alexis Floyd,Arian Moayed,安德雷斯·霍尔姆,杰夫·帕里,特里·金尼,安娜·迪佛·史密斯,马里卡·多米

类型:电视地区:美国语言:英语年份:2022

《虚构安娜》剧照

虚构安娜 剧照 NO.1虚构安娜 剧照 NO.2虚构安娜 剧照 NO.3虚构安娜 剧照 NO.4虚构安娜 剧照 NO.5虚构安娜 剧照 NO.6虚构安娜 剧照 NO.13虚构安娜 剧照 NO.14虚构安娜 剧照 NO.15虚构安娜 剧照 NO.16虚构安娜 剧照 NO.17虚构安娜 剧照 NO.18虚构安娜 剧照 NO.19虚构安娜 剧照 NO.20

《虚构安娜》剧情介绍

虚构安娜电视免费高清在线观看全集。
《创造安娜》围绕一位调查安娜·德尔维一案、迫切想证明自己的记者展开。安娜·德尔维是 Instagram 上传奇的德国女继承人,她赢得了纽约社交圈的欢心,还偷走了他们的金钱。安娜是纽约最大的女骗子,亦或仅仅是美国梦的新写照?在等待自己审讯的同时,安娜和这位记者结成了一种黑暗又有趣、爱恨交织的关系,而后者也在争分夺秒地为纽约市的一个最大疑问寻找答案:谁是安娜·德尔维?该剧的灵感来自《纽约》杂志上杰西卡·普雷斯勒的一篇文章《How Anna Delvey Tricked New York’s Party People》。热播电视剧最新电影一双绣花鞋20岁的灵魂白饭修行僧美味奇缘金属之声念念相忘雀斑公主猎杀中山狼司藤幽浮入侵狼来了阿尔伯特暗夜凶光假面英雄江湖夜店费城永远阳光灿烂第八季北海你是世界的开始重紫醒醒吧之大师铁人料理:巴西篇看脸时代惊叫大电影人面鱼:红衣小女孩外传黑钱那年盛夏我们绽放如花博斯第四季布鲁克林银行家伦敦女孩第二季Believe-通往你的桥-

《虚构安娜》长篇影评

 1 ) 关于艾伦·里德在美术馆里看的那幅画

艾伦第一次出场,坐在美术馆里面对的那幅画,跟机械姬里的那幅画很像,都是滴画,应该是杰克逊·波洛克的作品,被称为无意识绘画。

此时的艾伦已经知道自己被骗了,而且沦为安娜的工具,对于自己在工作上表现出的无意识应该是无比懊恼。

艾伦认识安娜之前只是个无聊的律师,按部就班,生活像上了发条一样准确无误,此时的艾伦在工作上是清醒的,但是在生活上是无意识的。

在安娜举办的第一次派对上,他把维特鲁威人说成是米开朗基罗的作品,应该是从没有关心过艺术吧。

而之后的艾伦重焕新生,即便知道自己被骗之后,依然会去逛美术馆,安娜虽然骗了他,但是也赋予了他新的生活意识。

从这一点上来看,安娜的确对周围的人有巨大的影响力。

 2 ) 原以为是一个女骗子的故事,结果是一座骗子之城的故事

网飞首页推荐的封面上,女主角Julia Garner戴着Anna Delvey标志性的黑框眼镜,头发蓬松分叉——这正是我当年在铺天盖地的媒体报道上对这个纽约骗子名媛的第一印象——她的发质如同她的气质一般发毛。

我本来对这一类社交八卦就不太感冒,所以从未细读新闻内容,只是隐隐觉得这个连假姓氏都既不德国也不贵族的25岁小姑娘,能骗倒纽约上层社交圈,接触到的应该是社交圈里不太入流的new money。

简而言之,没有底蕴识破她牵强附会的贵族背景;没有智力解读她不甚高明的自我包装;没有眼界看穿她似是而非的编造伎俩。

然而,这部以记者Vivian揭露事件真相的过程为切入点的9集网剧,做足了功夫,把一个看似“狗血”的骗子故事(基于事实)讲得里应外合,高潮迭起,层层反转,这主要归功于编剧的结构布局——每一集侧重于一个当事人的叙述视角——虽然因人物参与程度不同,偶有拖沓、注水的嫌疑——总体来说,为这个关于一个女骗子的故事提供了context(背景,语境),即为什么全球最“高大上”的曼哈顿社交圈会被这么一个初出茅庐的德国移民二代骗得团团转,甚至连华尔街最“精明”的金融律师都在劫难逃。

全剧看完,不难发现,Anna在曼哈顿富人圈混得风生水起的主要原因就是:她很擅长融入。

这种融入表面上看,是她坑蒙拐骗来的,比如伪造德国贵族背景,吹牛皮说有6千万美金的信托基金等着自己一到25岁就能兑现,明明是花别人钱、住别人豪宅、搭别人私人飞机和豪华游艇的leech(水蛭),却能心态自如,漫不经心,甚至对不够VVIP的待遇嗤之以鼻,直到所有被抱的大腿弃她而去,她也并未气馁妥协,而是进一步靠编织更弥天的谎言(选址牛逼的大楼,创建以自己名字命名的基金会,号称要做全球最高端的艺术、奢侈、富豪俱乐部),以期获得4千万美金的银行贷款……故事到了这里,Anna已经不是骗吃骗喝的小屁孩,如《天才普瑞利》那样从生活方式层面过几天富豪的日子,或是如《猫鼠游戏》那般纵横天下,潇洒挥霍,因为她自从有了华尔街资深金融律师的加持,那4千万美金的银行贷款居然并非天方夜谭。

如果最后Anna可以证明自己确实有那个所谓的德国家族信托基金,是否贵族根本无关紧要,之前的诸项欠款会得到解决,恶意透支信用卡也不过是有钱人对钱“毫不在意”的风度使然——也就是说,如果Anna真的有金钱后盾,不管这钱是俄罗斯黑手党的,或是别的什么灰色来路,凭借她的“融入”手腕,她都可以在曼哈顿富豪圈占有一席之地。

似乎,这才是本剧的核心宗旨:在“高大上”的纽约,本来就充斥了各种骗子,每个人都是hustler,每个人都want something——记者想要的不仅是挖掘真相,更是依靠流量置顶的文章夺回自己失去的事业;前男友想要的不仅是一段关系,更是靠着理想投射中的贵族富豪女友,从中产阶级步步高升;金融律师想要的不仅是大笔佣金,更是人到中年的激情回春与权势的无限扩张;就连《名利场》的编辑、酒店前台、私人教练这三朵塑料姐妹花,也都各怀企图,她们更像我们这些普通人,有着正常的慕强心理,也经常在虚荣心与廉耻心之间艰难徘徊。

Anna的所作所为虽然不可取,但她为了金钱和地位的不择手段,那股狠劲和巧劲,正是纽约的灵魂所在,她很聪明地窥视到了纽约的灵魂("She took a look at the soul of New York"),发现这太契合自己了。

本片英文名是Inventing Anna,这恐怕有两层含义:第一层是Anna的self-invention,这个词在英文语境中有着奋发图强、改写命运的褒义含义;第二层是纽约的大环境促成了Anna的self-invention。

我们别忘了,当Anna第一次离开德国老家,先去了伦敦中央圣马丁,遂即辍学来到巴黎,而后又辗转到了纽约。

这三座城市是全球最顶尖的时尚中心(可见Anna对时尚的追求从未改变),同时,它们也都是老牌的资本主义中心,但纽约与其他两座城的不同之处在于,它没有太多的帝国主义痕迹,纽约的核心是金钱和利益,而血统和出身倒在其次。

作为一个在纽约、洛杉矶、伦敦、柏林都居住过的观众,我可以佐证的一点是,Anna的发质和口音都注定她不可能在欧洲混得开。

可是纽约呢?

纽约是最大胆的骗子能混得最开的地方。

或许,Anna原本甚至有一天可以成为美国总统。

从这个角度来说,Julia Garner的表演基于真实人物的特性,至少可以打8分。

如果观众觉得,如此浮夸的演技不可能接近真实,那么只能说,我们对真实的理解还很肤浅。

朱晓闻2022年2月于柏林关注萨尔维亚之蓝(Salvia_Blue)这里没有最有价值的观点,也没有最领先的想法,最有价值的观点在历史中重复了千百遍,最领先的想法是经独立思考分析的结晶。

这里有的是看似被遗忘的,鲜为人知的,极为小众的有趣的人、物、事。

Salvia_Blue

 3 ) 从顶级名媛沦为阶下囚,这部由真人真事改编的美剧《虚构安娜》,教会了我这些口语表达

这部剧改编自真实事件,聚焦一起著名的“名媛骗局”,来自纽约杂志热门文章《How Anna Delvey Tricked New York’s Party People》:讲述的是一个名叫安娜·德尔维的女子自称是德国巨富豪门之女,从ins开始吸引了不少人的关注,成为纽约社交圈的热门girl,认识许多圈中富人名流,拿走了他们的钱,还差点办起了一家豪华俱乐部。

但此后,安娜被指控是诈骗犯,她的真实身份是俄罗斯人安娜·索罗金。

她从银行、所结交的朋友处骗取钱财,骗过酒店工作人员入住五星级酒店......把纽约名流耍得团团转的顶级女骗子“安娜”,真正的故事是怎样的?

是否映照了整个时代的缩影?

假扮名媛的她,是骗子,是天才,还是两者兼具?

看完了这部剧的第一集,我认识了什么是“白领犯罪”,此外我还整理了一些有意思的口语表达,一起分享给你1、white-collar felonies 白领犯罪

白领犯罪“white-collar crime”一词于 1939 年创造于美国,现在已成为企业和政府专业人士实施的各种欺诈行为的代名词。

一般来说,白领犯罪是纯粹为了经济利益而犯下的非暴力犯罪。

剧中的安娜正是一个活生生的例子,她瞒天过海,伪装成了名媛,利用这个身份所能够获得的信息或资源的特权,对银行进行欺骗和隐瞒并且违反信任,企图窃取数百万美元。

最后以犯了“白领重罪”而被捕入狱,她背后的动机便是为了获得金钱以及服务。

2、pulling yourself up by your bootstraps 奋发图强

pull yourself up by your bootstraps,字面上是拉紧靴子的鞋带站立,真正的含义则是奋发图强。

“bootstrap”是靴子的鞋带,“pull yourself up”就是把自己拉起来。

可以这样记:就是不管事情有多么困难即使只能从拉紧鞋带开始你也要努力完成。

比如说: Pull yourself up by the bootstrap and finish the project.你要奋发图强,努力地完成这个企划案。

3、drop it 别提了

let's drop it=let's drop the subject在口语中常用来结束当前谈话以及转换话题。

“drop”除了“落下”的意思之外,还可以表示“问题、事件、话题等完了、结束、停止”。

比如说:Let's drop it. I don't want to talk about it anymore. 别提了,我再也不想说那件事了。

4、flattery will get you everywhere 拍拍马屁会让你心想事成

flattery的意思是奉承、恭维、谄媚。

其实无论东西方人,听到恭维话的第一反应还是比较高兴的。

适度的说有利于人与人之间的交流,也能够使气氛变得轻松活跃,对于比较陌生的人,还有利于拉近双方的距离。

正因为flattery的种种好处,所以才有了这句俚语。

无论是古代还是现在,flattery will get you everywhere!

但是要注意,好的恭维应该是真心称赞别人所引以为自豪的东西,不要过了头哦5、bull 胡扯、扯淡

a load of bull=a lot of bull表示一派胡言。

bull原意是“公牛”,但在这里是指“胡说八道”或“完全错误的事情”,是一个俚语,相当于bullshit。

这个词虽然粗俗却很流行,bull或B.S.其实是bullshit的委婉说法。

6、agree to disagree 求同存异

这个短语在Urban Dictionary的解释是:

当谈话双方都认为自己是对的,再争下去没有意义时,他们就会说agree to disagree来结束争论。

也就是双方保留意见,“求同存异”的意思啦。

在生活中,我们常常有要提出自己不同意见的时候,特别是在工作中。

但是当意见提出来后,常常会有达不成一致的情况,这时候就可以说: Let's agree to disagree. 让我们保留各自意见,接受分歧的存在。

7、take a plea 认罪

在日常用语中,“plea” 表示的是“请求、恳求”。

但是大多数情况下在法律判决书、状书中常用来表示“认罪”,如:Early pleas to lesser offences. 提早承认较轻控罪。

8 shed light on 描述,解释,使明朗

shed light on这个词组字面上是“打一道灯光来照亮”,引申为使某事物更明朗、容易理解,意思和explain这个词基本一样。

英文中常以“光明”、“黑暗作为“知识”、“无知”的对比。

比如:in the dark是指“处于不明就里的状态”反过来in light of则是“借助于…的启发”。

比如说:This discussion has shed light on the problem. 这次讨论给解决问题带来了曙光。

9 knock-off 山寨货,仿制品

knock off有很多意思如“下班,别闹了”等,但是在这里是一个比较口语化的日常用词,指“山寨货、仿制品”,尤其指昂贵产品的山寨版。

比如要问一件产品是真货还是假货,你可以这么说:Is that the real thing or a knock-off? 那是真品还是仿制品?

10 be dying to do 迫切渴望、急于做某事

dying是die的现在分词,表示“临终的,垂死的”,进行时态表将来。

但注意了,可不要将 be dying to 解释为“处于临死状态”,它的意思其实是“迫切渴望”。

在我们中文里有一个常见的说法,叫做“想什么想得要死”,因此 be dying to 可引申为“非常的渴望做某事”。

比如说:I'm dying to see you soon. 我渴望能很快见到你。

11 tap into 利用,开发

一说起tap很多人应该会想到“tap water”自来水这个词,而“tap”则表示“水龙头”。

“tap”在这里则是它的引申词义,表示“利用、开发、发掘”。

当表示这个意思时,常与介词into连用,即tap into sth。

比如说:tap into your brain to get new ideas. 开动脑筋获得新想法。

其他与tap相关的搭配:tap sb for sth 向…索要,向…乞讨(尤指钱)tap in/out 输入,输出(信息、数字、字母等)tap out(跟着音乐节奏)轻轻打拍子、(用计算机或移动电话)写,敲出,键入12 LOL——Laughing Out Loud 大声笑 / STFU——Shut The Fuck Up 闭上你的臭嘴

这个"LOL"除了表示大家常说的英雄联盟游戏之外,还有另一个意思哦!

那就是"Laughing out loud"的缩写,大声笑出来,一般在文字聊天的时候会用到。

比如:LOL! That was so funny! 笑死我了,那真是太搞笑了!

STFU是“Shut The Fuck Up ”的缩写,表示很生气的让人闭上臭嘴,是一句脏话(好孩子勿学)。

13 so be it 就这样吧

so be it. 就那么样吧。

常在表达不甘心,但又不得不放弃、认输的时候使用,十分无奈的感觉。

语法小知识:so be it不是虚拟语气,而是倒装句。

原来的顺序应该是:let it be so, 倒装之后就省略了let. 意思是:“就让it如此或怎样吧。

”14 right off the bat 立刻,一下子

bat是“球棒”的意思,right off the bat字面解释就是“刚刚击出一球”。

我们知道棒球和球棒都十分坚硬,所以球棒一击中棒球,棒球就立即会以非常高的速度弹飞出去。

据说球速是每小时一百英里,right off the bat就出自棒球一接触球棒立即飞离而去,给人一种即刻出动的感觉。

比如说:Right off the bat I knew she was the girl for me.一瞬间,我明白了,她就是我的心上人。

15 I loathe you 我讨厌你

在生活中说“我讨厌你”我们常用“I hate you”来表达,hate 通常为语气较强的动词,常用于口语或非正式英语中,无足轻重地谈论所讨厌的人或物,如某种食物。

loathe的意思是“极不喜欢;厌恶”, 这个词的厌恶程度是非常深的,比 hate 和 dislike 严重多了,但也可以用于非正式场合指不太重要的事情,表示确实不喜欢。

有两个固定搭配:loathe sb / sth 讨厌某人loathe doing sth 讨厌做某事16 make a pledge 作出承诺

这里的make a pledge是发誓、作出承诺的意思,相当于我们熟悉的promise,但pledge这个词更加正式一些。

比如歌曲《Sealed With A Kiss》里就有一句歌词写到“Oh, let us make a pledge to meet in September ”喔,让我们约定九月再相见吧。

感兴趣的朋友可以去听听看,一首非常经典的英文歌17 name-dropper 搬出名人以自抬身价

dropper可以解释为“随口说出什么的人”。

a name-dropper就是指由于虚荣心作怪,以仿佛很熟悉的口吻谈到著名人物名字,并且到处显摆的人,明显在自抬身价啦。

所以‘name-dropper’就是“自抬身价者”的意思。

这种人往往是在说大话,甚至在胡说八道,所以人们早晚不会信他的。

18 ass-kissing 拍马屁

ass-kisser / ass-kissing 马屁精。

很好理解,吻屁股的人,就是马屁精。

比如说:Oh, he's such an ass-kisser. I can't believe the boss falls for it! 喔,他真是个大马屁精,我不敢相信老板吃他那一套。

也可表示”拍马屁“这一行为,kiss sb's ass就是指拍某人的马屁。

19 be amped for 对某事非常激动,抱有激情

amped是指“激动的,兴奋的”。

如果你对某事amped,这说明你非常激动且迫不及待的让这件事发生。

比如说:"I'm so amped for the game tonight!” 我超级期待今晚的比赛!

20 breathe down one's neck 步步紧逼

breathe是呼吸的意思,neck是脖子的意思。

breathe down one's neck 很容易联想到勒着脖子使人难以呼吸,引申为令人窒息的逼迫,对某人盯得特别紧的意思。

21 lay low 躲着点,保持低调

lay low本意有宅在家,避风头的意思,理解为低调也非常合适,其实这里和中文也有相合的地方:中文的“低”和英文的“low”,都有行事不太惹人注目的意思。

所以lay low字面意义是“停在低的地方”,实际上就是指“保持低调”。

比如说因为新冠,我们得在家宅(低调)一段时间。

你可以这么说:We have to lay low for a while because of the Coronavirus.喜欢的话,点个赞支持一下呗|本文作者:Zohra|审校编辑:Juliet

 4 ) 你相信你自己编的谎言吗?

你相信你自己编的谎言吗?

最近与“诈骗犯”有缘,接连看了三部:猫鼠游戏、Tinder诈骗王、创造安娜,都是真人真事,但最好看的我认为是猫鼠(看看编/导/演的阵容就明白什么叫一分价钱一分货),而这部百分之五十:一半亮点,一半糟点。

糟点首先此篇编造的成分实在高于真实的本身;其次虽然编剧有胡诌八扯的段位,但九集还不如两小时的电影把内容还原的有力清晰,最后是关于这骗子的品质:虽然都是骗子,但当下的骗子(网红)的水平真是越来越low,仅靠简单粗暴的强势与人格分裂便能节节升高?

如果这也叫高&明?

那老一代的诈骗犯看到年轻的诈骗犯估计不能不痛斥:神马 玩意儿?

真是一代(骗子)不如一代…..胆量尚且有,智商岂可言?

全程安娜hold不住时说的最多的一句话就是 :“Do you know who i am ?

” 连她代理律师都形容她的妄想症到了史诗级别!

“your delusion must be on some epic level.”

亮点首先在安娜的扮演者朱莉亚身上,她的演技基本撑起了一大半亮点。

压根没想到她是个纯犹太人纯以色列妞。

虽然有人批她说她没仿好俄罗斯人的口音,但这张脸真有九分俄罗斯人的特征。

而且朱莉亚把安娜的人格分裂也演出了极致:一点一画,一颦一笑,一招一式,一哭一闹,她把现代网红病态心理和状态拿捏的还是超精准的!

其次的亮点在片子的一些内容建构与呈现里,如片子呈现出安娜欺骗的水平其实并不高明,相反很low,只是她为达到目的时造谣亲人,利用爱情,藐视朋友这些冷血的行为成了亮点….而这不需要任何“高级智商”,仅仅靠妄想症+自恋狂+分裂症(通俗点就是全然不顾羞耻)就可以搞定!

这种病态的人格只有在身无分文、无人帮助与理会的时候,她才能恢复点点“正常”:对黑夜的胆怯(无家可归)让她心底最深处的良知反而有一丝涌现。

编剧让我们籍着安娜顺便看到了那些莫名相信她谎言的上流or中流社会的猫三狗四们真实的面目。

他们能被安娜骗就是因为他们各个都与安娜一样“有病”:孤独、骄傲、自负、贪婪、色相、玩忽职守、自以为是……孤独并不可耻,但人忘了本分真是可耻。

虽说人应当有同理心,但有些情况,同理心真的不必给那些不听劝告且非要享受自作自受的人,羞愧则是这群病人所得的最好的果实!

必须要提的是安娜的亲生父母:这对普通的不能再普通的新一代俄罗斯移民父母真是最了解他们女儿问题与真相的人。

(想起我妈经常说我弟的一句话:你一撅屁Gu要拉什么💩,妈都知道,😂亲爹妈从来都是话糙理不糙)而他们也选择了最佳的方式与有问题的女儿相处,那就是完全放手:谁的生活谁负责!

(十八岁前你撒谎的后果父母帮你一起担;十八岁后,你继续撒谎的后果就要自己承担,合情合理不是?

最后一集安娜在败诉前奔溃着给自己25岁的人生做了一个总结:“全世界终于都知道我离“成功”那么近,我不是个白痴!

” what????

F???

这无可救药的女主,这病入膏肓的台词….这中了浮夸造作世界的毒,这执迷不悟的领悟……OK,编剧的动机如果是要观众服了二十一世纪那些丑陋网红们那无与伦比的病态心理的话,那小编你赢了!

全集最高潮我不觉得是安娜花偷来钱时的嚣张跋扈态,或是她流落街头时的落魄相,而是她在面对她曾能利用的“朋友”与她讨债时,她仍把谎言说成是“努力” ,把欺骗当成创业,而全场只有那一位与她第一次见面却如她亲生父母一样了解她的陌生人,云淡风轻滴送给她一句评价:嗨!

碧~痴!

你是个骗子!

还表演呢?

还装 牛呢?

还继续耍疯啊?

还相信自己编造的谎言呢?

看到这里真是大快吾心, 这编剧应该是 童话之王Andersen《皇帝新装》的巨粉啊!

废话太多,不如一语到位:就!

她!

人!

间!

清!

醒!

啊!

至于倔强、执着、善良又心软的记者薇薇安戏份确实不少,有时候还有点盖过女主安娜,但没她的串线也会失去那些重要的线索。

她最经典的一句是 “A boring life doesn’t produce Anna.” 可经典话语不代表它是完全正确的!

的确她只说中了一半:平庸创造不了安娜,但病态心理是可以创造的,而且可以创造无数个“安娜”(网红)。

最诙谐的冷幽默则是瑞秋儿偷摸去唐人街警局告发安娜这段,那两个警察的台词即时戳中我的笑点。

对啊!

你知道在警察眼里,你瑞秋儿的困难与这大千世界里所有的麻烦相比是属于哪个级别吗?

想解决你的问题只有一个办法:please擦亮心眼!

谨慎择友!

不要再相信天上总给你莫名掉下来馅儿饼吃!

永远吃自己的、拿自己正当赚来的才是减少这类麻烦的捷径。

金钱、成功、权利,名誉…..魔毒害人不浅!

再漂亮再精明的骗子仍旧是骗子, The Devil is a liar and the father of liars.(John8:44 ) 。

除非骗子真的洗心革面….弃魔从义….

真实安娜&演员安娜

 5 ) Vivian的原文“Maybe She Had So Much Money She Just Lost Track of It” ,补充Rachel为名利场、Anna为Insider撰写的文章

“Maybe She Had So Much Money She Just Lost Track of It” Jessica PresslerIt 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 Fräulein,” 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 Alaïa — “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 AnnaRachel在名利场发表的原文:“AS AN ADDED BONUS, SHE PAID FOR EVERYTHING”: MY BRIGHT-LIGHTS MISADVENTURE WITH A MAGICIAN OF MANHATTANBY RACHEL DELOACHE WILLIAMSShe 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 row.) As we waited, an employee mentioned that someone had been fired because of the trouble with our villa’s payment. A functioning credit card should have been on file before we’d arrived, he explained.The men followed us back to our villa, as Anna spoke clipped phrases into her phone. They stood ominously on the edge of our living room. I offered them chairs, but they declined. I offered them water, smilingly trying to diffuse the tension. They declined. Anna sat in front of them, intensely focused. I excused myself, feeling the embarrassment of the situation, and thinking it best to give Anna some privacy since there was nothing I could do to help.In the morning, I awoke to a text message from the trainer. Still feeling sick, she wanted to go home and needed help making arrangements. She gave me her credit card and I booked a flight. As she packed, I called the concierge to request a car to take her to the airport.Instead of the car, five minutes later the two men from the night prior reappeared in the villa. I left the trainer and went to wake up Anna. She indignantly resumed her post in the living room, cell phone back to her ear. I called the concierge again. “Hi, can you please send that car? No, we’re not all leaving; we have one sick traveler who needs to make her flight. The rest of us are staying.” A car came and the trainer left. The rest of us sat in gridlock.Anna was no longer making calls. She sat there blankly. The men insisted that a functioning card was needed for a block on the reservation’s balance only, not to be charged for the final bill, which could be settled later. First Anna, and then the men, pressured me to put down my credit card for that block while Anna sorted out the situation with her bank. I was stuck. I had exactly $410.03 in my checking account. I had no alternate transportation from the hotel. I wanted to go home. And most importantly, I was told that my card would not be charged.Later that day, when American Express flagged my account for irregular spending activity, I went to the concierge desk to see why the “block” was registering as actual charges. I was told that credits for the same totals would appear in my account. I’ve been to many hotels and was familiar with that process: the way, when you check in, your card is often pre-charged for some amount that’s later credited back to your account. I rationalized this as the same thing. At least I knew Anna was good for the money. I’d seen her spend so much of it. You learn a lot about someone when you travel together.I left Marrakech early the next day, before Anna and the videographer. As I arrived at my destination, I received a text from Anna promising that she’d forward a wire confirmation as soon as possible. She’d checked out of La Mamounia and taken a car to Sir Richard Branson’s Kasbah Tamadot, a destination hotel in the foothills of Morocco’s High Atlas mountains. “I’ll wire you 70,000 [U.S.D.], that way everything’s covered,” she said. I suddenly understood that she intended to leave the hotel charges on my account, to add that amount to the total she owed me from expenses outside the hotel. The balance was more money than I net annually. It suddenly felt like a foregone conclusion.Anna stayed in touch daily, but in the following week I did not receive the wire as I’d been promised. I attributed her delay to disorganization and a failure to grasp the urgency of my situation. I was frustrated, but not surprised by her ineptitude, and I assumed the international wire transfer was just taking longer than expected.Her texts became increasingly Kafka-esque: assurances of incoming reimbursements through varying methods of payment that never materialized. She spun a web of promises that grew increasingly self-referential and complex. I thought there was an issue with her trust-fund disbursement, and I resented her unwillingness to be straight with me.When she got back to New York, she checked into the Beekman. (The Mercer was sold out, she said.) It was comforting to know that she was physically nearby, not far from my office in the World Trade Center. At least I knew where to find her. Bafflingly, she invited me to join our usual visits to the personal trainer. I declined.Seeking reimbursement from Anna became a full-time job. Stress consumed my sleep and fueled my days. My co-workers saw me unravel. I came to the office looking pale and undone.At last, a month after I’d left Marrakech, Anna claimed to have picked up a cashier’s check. She had been upstate dealing with a “work emergency,” but had made it to a bank before closing time and would deposit the check into my account in the morning, she said. This news should have incited a wave of relief, but instead, I remained skeptical.I showed up at the Beekman unannounced the next morning and rang Anna from the concierge desk. She answered, sounding groggy. “Hey, I’m here. What’s your room number?” I asked.Her room was a mess. Papers were everywhere. Her suitcases lay open and overflowing. Her black linen dress from Morocco hung in dry cleaner’s plastic from an open closet door. “Where’s the check?” I questioned, trying to make the transaction simple. She shuffled through piles of papers, looked under clothing, and dumped out various bags before claiming to have left the check in the Tesla she’d driven back from upstate. Of course, it couldn’t be easy. Of course, there was a problem.She called the Tesla dealership, and then her lawyer’s office. (“He must have it,” she said). I refused to leave. Anna said the check would be dropped off, so I waited. I went with her to Le Coucou, where she met with a different lawyer and a private-wealth manager. I followed her back to the lobby in the Beekman, where she ordered oysters and a bottle of white wine. I sat in silence, sending work e-mails from my phone, largely ignoring Anna, but keeping a watchful eye and asking periodically for an update. To prove a point, I stayed until 11 P.M. I left angrily, telling her I’d be back at 8 A.M. so we could go together to the bank. She agreed. “I hope you had fun, at least,” she chirped, with an impish grin. “No, this was not fun. This is not O.K.,” I stammered incredulously.The next morning, I arrived at the hotel on time. Anna was not there. I was livid. Her overt evasion confirmed what I had feared most: Anna was not to be trusted.Finally—why had it taken me so long?—I began to investigate on my own. I reached out to the friends through whom I’d met Anna and was referred to a guy who’d once loaned her money. He was German, like she was, and had known Anna since she lived in Paris. He told me a story that was alarming and reassuring in equal measure. He said that, after weeks of pestering, he had gotten his money back by threatening to involve the authorities, since Anna always maintained she was afraid of being deported. “Her dad is a Russian billionaire,” he said. “He brings oil from Russia to Germany.” The details obviously came directly from Anna, but they didn’t add up—Anna had told me that her parents worked in solar energy. He said that Anna had told him that she received around $30,000 at the start of each month and blew through it, and that she stood to inherit $10 million on her 26th birthday, the previous January, but because she was such a mess, her dad had arranged for the inheritance to be delayed until September of the same year, just a few months away.I knew that something wasn’t right. I searched for a way to reach Anna’s parents, but could find none. On the week of July Fourth, while I was in South Carolina with my family (who knew nothing of the situation), I received a text from the trainer. She told me that Anna was asleep on her couch. Did she not have another place to stay? Two days later, Anna texted me, too, asking if she could stay at my apartment. I said no.A day later, Anna called me crying. “I can’t be alone right now,” she pleaded. I offered to meet at her hotel. “I had to check out. Can I come to you?” she asked. I said no and hung up. Then my conscience got the better of me. I called her back: “You can come by, but you can’t stay here.” She was at my door within the hour. I didn’t have the energy to engage, so I said very little. My tiny studio apartment was in terrible disarray, the physical manifestation of my mental state: piles of papers, boxes, clothing, and stuff. I apologized for the mess. “You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. She was right. I made a conscious decision to turn the proverbial cheek. I ordered two salads and put on Bridget Jones’s Diary. When she asked to sleep on my couch, I was hardly surprised.ANNA CALLED ME CRYING. “I CAN’T BE ALONE RIGHT NOW,” SHE PLEADED. I OFFERED TO MEET AT HER HOTEL. “I HAD TO CHECK OUT, CAN I COME TO YOU?” SHE ASKED. I SAID NO AND HUNG UP.Even this far down the road, I tried to maintain an optimistic view of the situation: my friend had run into an unimaginable spell of bad luck; any day it would be resolved. This optimism was one of my defining characteristics, an Achilles’ heel. It’s what allowed me to befriend Anna in the first place: a willful suspension of judgment, an earnest filtration that looked for the best in others and excused the worst.Anna could certainly be the worst. At one point, before we left for Morocco, the management at 11 Howard asked Anna to pay for her reservations in advance. She was infuriated by this irregular treatment: “No one else must do that,” she protested. As retribution, she made note of the general managers’ names. Once she checked out, she claimed, she purchased the corresponding Internet domains. She then sent them e-mails to show what she’d done. “I’ll sell them back for a million dollars each,” she told me. This was a trick she’d learned from Martin Shkreli—whom she admired, and even claimed to have met with once or twice. I tried to rationalize her affinity for his antics, even as it made my stomach turn. I’m left to grapple with that in the aftermath.On the first day of August, I walked into a police station in Chinatown. I’d had enough. I told my story to a lieutenant. He fixated on the Morocco aspect of the situation and told me there was an insurmountable jurisdictional issue. “But with your face,” he said, “you could start a GoFundMe page to get your money back.” He suggested I try the civil court. I went outside and sobbed.When I stopped crying, I went straight to the nearby civil court. I found a help center and spoke to a woman through an institutional plexiglas divider before a mousey man in khakis walked me over to his cubicle. I relayed my tale of woe. “Well, gee, I’m kind of jealous that you got to go to Morocco,” he responded. He tried to help by offering pamphlets on pro-bono lawyers and artist-defense leagues, but the money involved surpassed the financial limit dealt with in civil court, he told me. I left feeling distraught.And then came the decisive moment: an episode that unfolded like the climax of a staged drama. Anna reappeared in the lobby of the trainer’s apartment, just as I left civil court. The trainer called me immediately and we decided to confront Anna together. The trainer also invited a friend of hers—someone she thought would be helpful—and the four of us convened at the Frying Pan, a bar on the West Side Highway. Anna was crying behind oversize sunglasses. She was wearing the same dress that she’d worn for weeks (a loan from her night’s stay in the trainer’s apartment). “Have you seen what they’re saying about me?” she whined. Apparently, the night before, an article had come out in the New York Post calling Anna a “wannabe socialite.” She’d stiffed the Beekman for her stay. Her belongings had been detained. She was being charged with several misdemeanor offenses, including an embarrassing dine-and-dash incident.At an outdoor table, surrounded by young professionals boisterously enjoying after-work drinks, the four of us existed in our own little world. “We are here because we want to help you,” the trainer began. “But to do that, we need to hear some truth from you, Anna.” It was the same old song and dance: Anna stuck to her story, claiming that all she’d said was true; nothing was her fault. Anna sat across from me as the women relentlessly pressed for answers, for names, for a way to reach Anna’s family. I said very little as I watched. I seemed to float outside of my body, while tears ran down my cheeks. Against the raised voices and direct accusations, Anna’s face assumed an unsettling blankness. Her eyes were empty. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know her at all. With this epiphany came a sort of release and a strange calmness. I understood the women’s anger and disbelief; I’d had those feelings for months. But I had come through to the other side, and I knew that there was only one answer.The next day, I e-mailed the New York County District Attorney’s Office, linking to an article about Anna: “I think this girl is a con artist,” I wrote. An hour later, my cell phone rang. The caller I.D. read “United States.” I picked up the phone, as I stepped away from my desk. “We think you’re right,” a voice said.An assistant district attorney confirmed that Anna Sorokin (a.k.a. Anna Delvey) was the subject of an ongoing criminal investigation.Anna photographed in Manhattan Supreme Court where she plead not guilty to charges including grand larceny and theft on...Anna photographed in Manhattan Supreme Court where she plead not guilty to charges including grand larceny and theft on October 25, 2017. PHOTOGRAPH BY STEVEN HIRSCH.On the last Wednesday in August, I awkwardly lowered my tote bag to the floor, resting it against the wall, before turning to face the roomful of Manhattan jurors, nearly two dozen faces dotting curved tiers of seating that reminded me of a college classroom. I assumed the position of a professor, though I was hardly fit to teach the group—I, the dupe, the dope, the sorry case. And then I recalled one class I might now be qualified to teach, or at least I could be a guest lecturer, the only one for which I’d received an A+ during my time at Kenyon: “The Confidence Game in America,” an advanced-level English course taught by Lewis Hyde, who’d written a book all about tricksters (Trickster Makes This World). Well, at least the irony was gratifying.I stood behind a small wooden table in the front of the room. The court reporter sat to my left, and an assistant district attorney stood at a podium to my right, next to a projector. The foreperson, a girl about my age, sat in the center of the back row and asked from above, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” I did.I was the victim of alleged grand larceny in the second degree—grand larceny by deception. “How much do you make in a year?” the assistant D.A. asked me. Beside her, on the wall behind my chair, was a projector screen, on which shone a spreadsheet of all the charges on my accounts related to Morocco. The bolded total at the bottom of the display read $62,109.29. “Would you have gone on this trip if you knew that you’d be the one paying?” the attorney continued. The idea was laughable, even while I cried.I wasn’t the only one who’d believed in Anna. At the grand-jury hearing, Anna was indicted on six felony charges and one misdemeanor charge. I realized the scope of her purported deceit as I later read the indictment. She was accused of falsifying documents from international banks showing accounts abroad with a total balance of approximately €60 million. According to a press release from the New York County District Attorney’s Office announcing the indictment, in late 2016, she took these documents to City National Bank in an attempt to secure a $22 million loan for the creation of her art foundation and private club. When City National Bank denied the loan, she showed the same documents to Fortress Investment Group in Midtown. Fortress agreed to consider the loan if Anna provided $100,000 to cover legal and due-diligence expenses.I EMAILED THE NEW YORK DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE: “I THINK THIS GIRL IS A CON ARTIST,” I WROTE. AN HOUR LATER, MY CELL PHONE RANG. THE CALLER ID READ, “UNITED STATES.” I PICKED UP THE PHONE. “WE THINK YOU’RE RIGHT,” A VOICE SAID.On January 12, 2017, almost a month before she returned to New York, Anna secured a $100,000 loan from City National Bank by convincing a bank representative to let her overdraft her account. She allegedly promised the bank that she would wire the funds shortly to cover the overdraft (a familiar tune). She gave the borrowed money to Fortress.In February, when Anna re-entered my life, Fortress had used approximately $45,000 of Anna’s $100,000 deposit and was attempting to verify her assets to complete the loan. At that point, Anna backed out. She told me that her father had gotten wind of the deal and didn’t like the terms. She withdrew herself from consideration and kept the remaining $55,000 from the City National Bank loan, which Fortress had returned. Apparently, that’s how she paid for her lifestyle: 11 Howard, the dinners, personal-training sessions, and shopping.Between April 7 and April 11, Anna allegedly deposited $160,000 in bad checks into her Citibank account and transferred $70,000 from the account before the checks bounced. She never paid Blade for the $35,000 private plane she had chartered to Omaha in May. In August, she opened a bank account with Signature Bank and, according to the indictment, deposited $15,000 in bad checks. She withdrew approximately $8,200 in cash before the account was closed. She was, allegedly, check-kiting.The reality of Anna’s behind-the-scenes dealings, these figures flying from one account to another, remains dizzying to this day—that she was allegedly orchestrating such elaborate schemes while maintaining a believable, surface cool, wielding her debit cards to pay for dinners, workouts, beauty products, and spa treatments. She conjured a glittering, frictionless city—whatever one wanted would be bought, wherever one wanted to go was a cab ride or plane trip away. The audacity of her performance sold itself, until it collapsed under the weight of its own ambition. It’s a part of why I believed her—and continued to believe her: who would think to make up such an elaborate tale, and carry on like this for so long? Who was she? How do you know who anyone is, really? Back on June 9, Anna sent me $5,000 via PayPal. I thought she was stalling, but this gesture tugged at me. Knowing what I know now, why did she give me anything at all? Surely, she would have paid me the full amount if she could have, right?Anna was scheduled to appear in court on September 5, for the misdemeanors that had come out in the news, including her allegedly stolen stay at the Beekman, but she never appeared. I resumed communication with her via text message, not letting on that anything had changed. She had gone to the West Coast and was checked into a rehab in Malibu. In early October, when I was in Beverly Hills for V.F.’s annual New Establishment Summit, Anna and I arranged to have lunch. She never made it. She was arrested in Los Angeles on October 3 and arraigned in a Manhattan court on October 26. She is currently being held without bail on Rikers Island.IT WAS A MAGIC TRICK—I’M EMBARRASSED TO SAY THAT I WAS ONE OF THE PROPS, AND THE AUDIENCE, TOO.Contacted for this article, Anna’s attorney, Todd Spodek, had a much more pedestrian view of matters concerning Anna. “The burden rests squarely with a lender to conduct the appropriate due diligence before extending credit of any type,” he wrote, “and to document the terms of the loan. This is a civil matter, and the appropriate recourse for Ms. Williams is to sue Ms. Sorokin for defaulting on a loan, not to initiate criminal charges. I submit that Ms. Williams does not have an iota of proof to support any agreement, of any type, whatsoever.”Anna told me once that her plans were either going to work out, or all go horribly wrong. Now I see what she meant. It was a magic trick—I’m embarrassed to say that I was one of the props, and the audience, too. Anna’s was a beautiful dream of New York, like one of those nights that never seems to end. And then the bill arrives.CORRECTION: An earlier version of this story misidentified the grand-jury hearing at which Anna Sorokin was indicted. It was a hearing, not a trial.

Anna出狱后自己给insider写的稿子,关于自己对Netflix的Inventing Anna的看法和她在狱中生活的情形: Erasing Anna: From ICE detention, Anna Delvey talks about her new Netflix show and life behind barsWhile the world is pondering Julia Garner's take on my accent in "Inventing Anna," a Netflix show about me, the real me sits in a cell in Orange County's jail in upstate New York, in quarantine isolation.I am here because Immigration and Customs Enforcement decided that my early merit release from prison means nothing to them and, despite being perfectly self-sufficient when left to my own (legal) devices, I, in fact, present "a continuous danger to the community." Apparently, Daily Mail headlines are admissible evidence that override the decisions of the New York State Board of Parole and can be used to back up the Department of Homeland Security's arguments that instead of getting a job, I was "busy getting my hair done" — me and my bad ways.While I was in prison, I paid off the restitution from my criminal case in full to the banks I took money from. I also accomplished more in the six weeks they deemed were long enough for me to remain free than some people have in the past two years. My visa overstay was unintentional and largely out of my control. I served my prison sentence, but I'm appealing my criminal conviction to clear my name. I did not break a single one of New York state's or ICE's parole rules. Despite all that, I've yet to be given a clear and fair path to compliance.Did I mention I'm the only woman in ICE custody in this whole jail? Tell me I'm special without telling me I'm special."The court finds that, even if released from detention and ordered to report regularly to ICE, the respondent would have the ability and inclination to continue to commit fraudulent and dishonest acts," an immigration judge ruled. "She clearly possesses the knowledge to do so and has failed to demonstrate remorse." Sorry, am I on trial for this again?So no — it doesn't look like I'll be watching "Inventing Anna" anytime soon. Even if I were to pull some strings and make it happen, nothing about seeing a fictionalized version of myself in this criminal-insane-asylum setting sounds appealing to me.Garner as Sorokin on Rikers Island on "Inventing Anna." Aaron Epstein/NetflixI still remember the night of ABC's "20/20" episode about me in October. It was also unfortunately the night when the meds come really late, so everyone was up waiting and watched it.It's hard to explain what I hate about it. I just don't want to be trapped with these people dissecting my character, even though no one ever says anything bad. If anything, everyone's really encouraging, but in this cheap way and for all the wrong reasons. Like, they love all the clothes and boats and cash tips. I saw only the first couple minutes before I went back into my cell. I was definitely not going to sit there and watch it with everybody. And I don't need any more jail friends, thank you very much.For a long while, I was hoping that by the time "Inventing Anna" came out, I would've moved on with my life. I imagined for the show to be a conclusion of sorts summing up and closing of a long chapter that had come to an end.Nearly four years in the making and hours of phone conversations and visits later, the show is based on my story and told from a journalist's perspective. And while I'm curious to see how they interpreted all the research and materials provided, I can't help but feel like an afterthought, the somber irony of being confined to a cell at yet another horrid correctional facility lost between the lines, the history repeating itself.Admittedly, I, the ultimate unreliable narrator, have made some questionable choices that I wouldn't necessarily repeat today.Do these decisions inevitably make me a permanent threat to public safety? The government says yes.But in comparison with whom? Everything's relative.It makes no sense for me to still be here long after they have brought in and then released numerous violent offenders (robbers, rapists, would-be murderers) and people with an assortment of felony DUIs and grand larcenies. Do they not "clearly possess the knowledge" to recommit the same crimes they've been accused of before, or do different standards apply to them?Meanwhile, I spent another set of holidays followed by a COVID-19-tainted birthday in a depressing cell, which therefore logically categorized me as more dangerous than every single one of those people. In that case, it's totally understandable why I shouldn't be allowed out of my cell for weeks at a time. Who'd want to take the risk?After I finished my prison sentence and left Albion, I thought all this was over, forever, and that I'd never see the inside of another correctional institution again.Shortly afterward, I found myself in the Orange County jail by way of Bergen County Jail, where everything triggers constant flashbacks. Altogether, I've been through seven different facilities for one single case. It's like "Groundhog Day."I never complained about a lot of things. From the very beginning of my journey incarcerated in the state of New York, I thought people just wanted to see me be miserable.The same hand consistently finds its way to your knee, lingers on your calves, grabs your ankles, wrists, waist: cuffs, chains, bruises on the same spots. It's all for the sake of security, of course.Be cool. Don't be annoying. I was considered "not a regular white girl, like the rest of them here." I tried to be a "good sport," and it got me things. Not always but most of the time. Small stuff — enough to be competitive about. I got away with things others didn't. It's not that I wanted their validation. It was more that I didn't want to deal with the consequences of not having it.I didn't say anything when they brought article printouts and tearouts from papers and magazines, in a jail where the New York Daily News is being policed daily and purged of any mentions of Rikers and any of its inmates in "media review."A lot of this nonabuse is subtle, shaped by an understanding that in jail, you are a problem that needs to be dealt with.What you won't see in the Netflix show is my newly acquired habit. I have to methodically bite the skin around my nails until the nail beds slowly fill with blood from both sides, collect at the tip, which I then squeeze until there's enough to drip down the sink of the cell with opaque white-spray-painted windows I spend 91.2% of my day in. Rinse and repeat. It doesn't accomplish anything tangible, other than dulling an obsessive fixation on another wasted day that I'll never get back. And I can't just stop.In jail, I quickly gave up on the concept of privacy. How many people can really say they are fully in control of theirs, anyway?And most importantly — didn't I put myself here?Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, on January 19, I tested positive for COVID-19.I'm sure I'll live, but I haven't been this sick in years.The jail's response to a positive test is to just lock you up. It's convenient for them. It all shall pass, no? The majority of people here quickly caught on and stopped complaining about symptoms out of fear of getting locked in. The staff insists on using the words "medical isolation," even though there's nothing medical about it. One is simply being made to sit in a cell with a hole in the door. This place is like a Petri dish for viruses and bacteria. The only fun is listening to dim-witted sergeants come up with 50 different ways to tell you no.There is always a good reason for everything. They're understaffed and tired, and there is a hundred-day backlog (Of what? No one ever specifies.), which apparently is supposed to be my problem, even though I never asked to be here. I don't recall any delays or backlogs in me getting arrested.I haven't seen a real doctor in over four years. Dismissive nurses who suspect everyone just wants to get high and would do anything to obtain generic meds don't count.It's designed this way, the jail. They take away your choices, and give you the worst, so next time you'll think twice before stabbing your neighbor — or overstaying your visa.During my latest ICE bond hearing, in October, it was the government's burden to prove I would be a danger to my community if I were released.They presented no evidence to demonstrate my alleged insatiable drive for continued criminal exposure. With eight remaining years of parole supervision apparently not being a good enough deterrent, and in absence of anything better, what they did find was an Instagram post from 2018 — an old picture of my friend Neff and me on a rooftop in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood, posted by her to my account with the location tagged as "Rikers Island maximum security prison" (which isn't even a thing), as a throwback joke. (Editor's Note: Neffatari Davis is Anna's friend and a consultant on "Inventing Anna," and was extensively quoted in the New York magazine story.)The picture started multiple internal and NYPD investigations, none of which yielded results. I never got as much as a written infraction.It was refreshing to find out that for an agency that thrives on flaunting all kinds of rules, ICE created very few restrictions for its own operations.It's hard to prepare or submit any evidence for the court's consideration when you find out about the hearing 10 minutes before it takes place. Is it fair to call me "unpredictable" if you never gave me a chance to create stability?The most recent twist from ICE is that I've been waiting since November for a decision "to reissue" a letter that never arrived here. It should be an easy thing to determine considering all my mail is being logged. Who knows how much longer it will take to think this over — a month, six months, a year?Such decisions can't be rushed. And as long as the threat to public safety is secured in a cell, who cares?Many of the inmates here don't speak a word of English but are released into the community without as much as an ankle bracelet or token bail. I'm genuinely glad for them. The majority I've encountered seem like kind and well-meaning people who happen to have made a couple of mistakes. But I doubt any of them meet the standards of financial stability and property ownership ICE has used to keep me in here.Most Americans think of Mexico when they hear "ICE." No wonder — the mainstream media is flooded with news where Immigration and Customs Enforcement is mentioned mainly in the context of deportations and detentions of minorities.During my time in this jail (where I'm in general population with others who are in regular criminal proceedings), I've learned that most people don't even realize ICE deals with every immigrant, not just enforcement of the southern border. I've heard numerous variations of, "I didn't realize you were Mexican. You really can't tell!" and, "It's crazy that they can hold you for this long, and you aren't even from Mexico."The revelation that you didn't have to be Hispanic to have all kinds of problems with ICE seemed to register as genuine surprise.Some go a step further and offer friendly advice: "Did you know there's an office in the city where you can renew your visa? Did you ask your lawyer?" Yes, and then I kind of got arrested at that office.Will I forever be judged by my early-to-mid 20s? Is there anything else I could possibly have done to close this chapter?Will I forever be stuck in a past not entirely of my creation without getting a chance to move on?

 6 ) Anna 露出的那些马脚

No.1在豪华游轮上一个很势利眼的女孩问是不是在苏荷之家见过安娜,注意看这里安娜的神态中掠过一丝不安,但随即以“觉得随便什么人他们都会给会员身份”的理由圆过去了,并且顺便立了一下自己的清高以及拥有高贵独特品味的人设,外加当时的好闺蜜在一旁应和,这个小插曲便不了了之。

要知道苏荷之家(SOHO HOUSE)是一个世界顶级俱乐部,据说金·卡戴珊申请过无数次都没能加入......而这个俱乐部内装的供应商还为英国皇室(比如哈利王子和梅根的家)提供过浴盆,所以安娜没有去过苏荷之家只能有两种可能,一是她真的不够格,二是,如她所说,她不屑于去。

显然这里第一种可能性更大。

No.2紧接着一群人在甲板上喝酒,一个大佬听出安娜的俄罗斯口音,于是用俄语对安娜和蔡斯说了祝酒辞,蔡斯一头雾水显然没有听懂,大佬转而问安娜,安娜却表示自己听不懂,但是事实是安娜的确出生在俄罗斯,按理说她不可能听不懂的,结合安娜一直声称自己是德国贵族这一点,可以推断出这里安娜又在撒谎,以掩盖自己的身世。

所以这里也为安娜的身份不明做了伏笔。

No.3接下来就是很经典的这一段,安娜付不出钱被酒店扣下行李的桥段,这里的马脚很明显,连剧里的人物都开始怀疑她,最终还是倒霉蛋蔡斯跑来把钱付了,总之这一段看得我尴尬症都犯了……

No.4蔡斯得知安娜的真名后,和刚刚shopping回来的安娜在阳台上对峙,问她的真实身份。

结果安娜花言巧语一通操作,激情描述了自己的宏伟梦想,成功化解危机。

(这里我也是很服)

No.5安娜和内芙谈心的时候无意中说起了自己小时候的事情,不小心暴露了自己曾经很贫穷的事实,结果安娜迅速圆谎,并顺势把自己塑造成了一个家有万贯财产但是偏要白手起家的励志女性。

No.6在酒店工作的内芙遇到了自己老板的两个儿子,顺便提起了安娜,可对方表示并不知道老爸在和安娜做生意,并指出了如果是老爸的重要生意伙伴,为什么只住了豪华房而不是豪华套房这个一点,内芙转念一想,有道理啊,转头去问安娜,当然,安娜又是轻描淡写,扔出了“他已经帮了我很多,我不想再麻烦他”这样听起来又别扭又合理的理由。

这里内芙是当局者迷了,就像之前的很多人一样。

住一套稍微便宜点的屋子就算是少欠一点人情了?

这怎么想都不是有钱人的逻辑吧……

 7 ) 请停止对反社会者的支持(本文为搬运)

说在前面:我逛了一下IMDB,看到一篇影评,又刷新了我对于剧里剧外Anna的认知,特此搬运翻译一下这篇影评,如有侵权,请及时告知。

以下是正文(标题如上):Netflix支付给Anna Sorokin,本剧的核心诈骗犯32万美元用于购买其故事的版权。

Sorokin用这笔钱偿还了她从银行盗窃的资金,以及她欠纽约州的一些罚款。

接着,她参加了大大小小的脱口秀或是其他综艺以继续出名。

在我撰写这篇影评的时候,她正在等待被遣返回德国,但罹患新冠阻碍了这一进程。

美国海关认为她是故意患病以呆在美国更久,毕竟,Anna本就是个骗子。

因此,为了让我们这些普罗大众明白反社会人格和好莱坞的运作模式,(被诈骗的)银行又重新通过Anna的故事版权获得了补偿,然而,在Anna诈骗过程中用的那些普通人的信用卡和银行账户仍然没有得到补偿。

尽管纽约州有山姆之子法律条文(译者注:禁止以盈利为目的出版罪犯的犯罪回忆录)的存在,通过Shonda Rimes撰写的这个剧本,Anna仍然变成了一个“非主流主角”并通过她的罪行获利。

当我们看这部剧的时候,我们正在帮助一个反社会者牟利。

诈骗是骗子的本质。

Julia Garner对Anna的诠释很棒,但她的口音让我想砸了我的电视。

Shonda呈现给了我们一个迷人的剧本。

但这部剧的意义究竟是什么,只是为了拍某种OJ(译者注:OJ Simpson案是美国历史上最轰动的案子,有相关纪录片及改编美剧)“如果我做了”视角的犯罪吗?

我不喜欢拔高骗子地位的想法,尤其是我不喜欢因为她只诈骗富人所以她的诈骗行为没有问题的想法。

诈骗就是诈骗。

她不是罗宾汉。

她只是个小偷。

 8 ) 刷不了卡大呼小叫的女骗子请不要碰瓷女权主义

我看到的安娜就是一个不高明的骗子,不管电视剧多么努力地想去把这个姑娘塑造成一个劫富济贫的复杂人物,她还是一个彻头彻尾的骗子,而且骗得一点技术含量都没有。

这和男女无关。

一直强调男女之间的区别,让我作为女权都觉得扯淡。

男人犯了错不需要负责吗?

不是的,那是因为安娜并没有骗大批资金,二十万美元对于这些公司来说只是小数目,艾伦也只不过付出了一些工时而已。

事务所让艾伦升职把这事儿遮过去也不是为了他个人,而是为了事务所的声誉,这也和男女没什么关系。

安娜是男的就能成功了吗?

是,电视剧里面有个银行家要性骚扰安娜,当然对她出手是那个银行家的错,但是这是私德问题啊,安娜被银行卡着不给钱已经说得很清楚了,她的信托基金审核不通过。

就我看来,安娜只不过就是混圈子的一个小女生而已,她所谓的工作,所谓的努力,就是不停地见有钱人,忽悠有钱人,宣传她那个非常高大上但同时也很模糊的idea,实在看不到她的努力,至少编剧要让我看到她熬夜写ppt吧。

更何况她身边最亲近的不是势利眼就是骗子,根本没什么干实在事儿的人,要艺术家没艺术家,要技术骨干没技术骨干,最后卡在银行这里,让人感觉她真是该啊,这不卡你卡谁。

那些曼哈顿杂志的记者还对安娜骗了一架飞机大呼小叫的,感觉真的没必要啊,行业资深记者什么大阵仗没见过,一群老头老太还这么惊讶,感觉就是编剧在那儿硬捧安娜,看着挺无力的。

 9 ) 正如托德所说,每个人身上都有安娜的影子 (珠宝)

电视剧是关于一个年纪轻轻的25岁女孩如何打造自己的人设,差点儿骗取了上千万的贷款的事情。

这不是励志故事,这也不是美国梦,但是编剧们有他们的套路,她会提到这个点。

很多人也觉得这个剧为什么没有完整的还原真实事件,但是不管任何事,你如果完完全全还原事情经过,它还是原本的事情经过么?

就好像罗生门一样,记者的调查也主要是基于当事人或者说亲历者的讲述,这其中每个人都会因为自己的利益关系选择与所保留,有些一次性说不完整,他们会像挤牙膏一样慢慢地告诉你,即使你用所有的数据构建了这个类似3D模型,你也不一定看到了准确的样貌。

正所谓,故事吸不吸引人,不单单是剧情的原因,还有讲述者的节奏、风格、口音、情绪。

这个故事网飞花了30几万美元从安娜那里购买,然后又教给打造无数神剧的Shonda Rhimes(《实习医生格蕾》《Bridgerton》来作为主创,导演有由执导过《穿Prada的女王》的导演David Frankel,执导过《丑女贝蒂》的Tom Verica,执导过《女子监狱》《无耻家庭》的Daisy von Scherler Mayer,演员主要是这几年的艾美奖最佳女配角,Julia Garner(代表作黑钱胜地)Anna Chlumsky(代表作副总统)。

非常强大的创作团队,加上真实案件的知名度,这个剧还没有看就觉得是个分数及格及以上的美剧。

关于安娜的衣橱,各家时尚网站都在努力分析了,度假时大部分的Etro,各种Dior,铂金包,celine的眼镜我就不一一赘述了,因为我不太了解。

我就浅浅谈一下我认识的珠宝。

安娜度假时的装束

Alexis BittarAlexis Bittar是个比较小众的设计师品牌,其品牌的饰品都非常精致独特,深受名媛们喜欢。

这对拜占庭风格的耳环由人造珍珠和亚克力还有施华洛世奇水晶构成,造型夸张,元素丰富,很适合度假时的名媛们。

当时那一集,大部分都是巴洛克风格等造型较大,镀金或者珍珠的元素构成的耳环。

当时派对的主人,她还有一个场景是戴着镶满珍珠的大金耳圈

tulia打电话骂安娜时戴的耳环

Oscar de la Renta

Baublebar

因为电视看的不能截图,就是前面她和内夫她们到处玩有一个镜头,在酒吧,她穿了一条红色裙子,戴的这个耳环,这可能是安娜剧中最便宜的首饰,这个牌子是个ins上火起来的珠宝品牌,又是在于设计感的有趣还有价格的合理,它们的耳环很火。

这个耳环的元素burst star倒是很多品牌都做过。

这个耳环不知道是什么品牌的

这个是Oscar de La Renta

Oscar de LaRenta

Nora戴的是Oscar de la Renta的经典款

Oscar de la Renta,应该是在草地筹集资金那集谁戴过,特别像

jennifer behr有一集安娜戴了非常类似的款,但是下面是彩钻。

Nora在剧中戴了很多风格巴洛克的耳环,金和珍珠的元素非常具有力量感。

巴洛克珍珠

律师的妻子配饰是满钻的项链不知道品牌

Jenny Bird

Jenny Bird记者vivian的饰品我只认识这个项链,应该是ins超火品牌Jenny Bird的,低调有质感,简约又不简单。

LovisaNeff此处戴的侧脸耳环看着应该是平价品牌lovisa. 打折时经常几刀。

Neff和安娜此处的耳环也各有特色,一个满钻线条状修饰脸型,一个是镶钻树脂材质辉映眼睛的颜色。

希望之后可以补充,不对也请大家指正。

 10 ) 好故事,编剧水平差了点

第七集总结安娜的时候,编剧没有把原文用完全,所以显得有点跳脱,我看的时候也有点感觉衔接不上,不太连贯。

原文写得太好了,贴一下: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 Company into 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.

《虚构安娜》短评

我都被洗脑了 不觉得是骗子 或许很多人都是采取这种方式成功吧 只是事情败露没有罢了…

8分钟前
  • momo
  • 较差

完成度非常高的一部剧,题材好制作好表演好,多段对白真是强到爆炸,在观众基本已知剧情的情况下依然能拍的扣人心弦,也没有刻意强加悬疑。中间有几集略微拖沓,最后一集对律师和记者的内心的表现张力十足,值得五颗星推荐。

9分钟前
  • 榕晨
  • 力荐

国家反诈中心教材;记者律师靠安娜也成就了自己。

13分钟前
  • 娓娓
  • 推荐

3.5 半认真半satire的腔调拿捏的还挺有意思的 是高于netflix平均水平的剧了

16分钟前
  • やま
  • 还行

这孩子离成功也太远了,贷款是不可能批下来的,最后自己坐牢了,其他吸她血的人却过得更好了。有钱人的好品味,言行举止可以模仿,所以有钱人跟普通人区别在哪里?就只有在钱了啊哈哈哈。

20分钟前
  • 啫哩啊
  • 推荐

原来美剧演员也可以演技这么差呀~

25分钟前
  • 门门
  • 很差

Anna这个人物太有意思了,自负、自恋、傲慢、精明,实际上也很脆弱和孤独,她拜金但是又很独立,看到后面觉得被她骗不算可怜,那些靠着她的故事获利的人才恶心,especially Rachel the real BITCH!!!!

27分钟前
  • Carmen
  • 还行

本来是个第一人称的爽剧,非得从第三人称的角度讲,给女记者加了一大堆戏,把故事变得支离破碎,然后发现她就只是骗了20万美元?北京的一个客厅而已?Netflix买这个故事花的钱都比她骗的多?

29分钟前
  • 豌豆汤
  • 较差

Shonda Rhimes even makes Amy Brookheimer so boring

32分钟前
  • SteadytheBuffs
  • 较差

第一集差点弃,第二集尴尬到脚趾扣地。女主解决的问题的方式就是靠着无能狂怒和公主病蒙混过关吗?明明想塑造一个如鱼得水的social Queen,以及高智商的骗子,呈现的结果却是一个公主病晚期,一会儿心理素质叹为观止,一会又无能狂怒,解决问题全靠发脾气???要说是爽剧这也没有多爽啊而且人物莫名其妙的,记者和律师对安娜的态度根本没有合理的支点…(引用一条别人的短评:看完了,拍的烂,演的憨。再加一条:写的差。)

37分钟前
  • 伊里米亚思
  • 还行

受不了了…女记者的演技就像在《汉尼拔》里被折磨那几年的后遗症,只会挤眉弄眼、歇斯底里,衬托得女二那矫揉造作的神态都大方、端庄、流畅。看这一事件的报道都比看剧有意思,“看着纽约的灵魂,安娜意识到如果你用闪亮亮的东西、大量的现金、财富的象征吸引人们的注意力,他们就几乎无法看到其他任何的东西。”至少是半个菲茨杰拉德水平的。剧中还提到了“长岛”。

41分钟前
  • Euphrosyne
  • 还行

蹭热点

43分钟前
  • Jnfrt
  • 还行

开头三集差点没两星弃剧,实在太像十年前公共台会拍的钓收视率的剧,抬头一看编剧是Shonda阿姨…她怎么能把自己的女主都写出同款歇斯底里啊?引入安娜各位旧友后,节奏和故事层次都好了一些。能看下去完全是故事本身足够精彩,没遇上更好的改编实在可惜。

46分钟前
  • 托卡苏
  • 还行

题材很有趣 女主演技也太做作了………这声音听的我以为杨幂会讲英语了 /// 我错了,所有人演技都特么好差,女记者像面部抽搐了一样

47分钟前
  • 香煎小拳头
  • 较差

从安娜(茱莉娅·加纳 饰)的外在行为表现来看,我觉得她不是骗子,而是精神病(躁郁症或妄想症那种):她每次明知卡刷不过.却不会事先安排退路溜走(比较像是吃霸王餐丶赖帐这种等级)丶被诈骗的瑞秋(凯蒂·洛斯 饰)在电话中想用“友谊”之名为诱饵,竟成功钓出安娜赴约,并在这过程中,没有封锁任何受害者的赖丶电话等联系方式,从种种迹象故可得知:她沉浸在自己建构名为「安娜·德尔维」的身分,且深深不可自拔。有一个细思极恐之处:若她真有个富爸爸的话,差一步即可贷款成功,荒唐彰显上流阶级徒有身分地位,而非实力判定。三星半★★★☆

49分钟前
  • 摇 滚 泡 沫
  • 还行

安娜妄想症晚期患者,银行家老头那里看着不太真实,那么轻易就相信了?瑞秋彻头彻尾垃圾,一开始像寄生虫一样,靠舔安娜吸血过活,出事了就出卖安娜,继续利用安娜敛财,最瞧不起这种人。女记者演技堪忧,太夸张,还有剧情有的没的什么临盆破水之类的实在没必要,看着反而让人觉得刻意,很尴尬。看剧评有人说安娜像郑爽,回味一下还真有那点意思,白眼翻上天,趾高气扬的样子,不过骨子里就是个病人,可悲又可恨。

50分钟前
  • Vivian
  • 推荐

女骗子兴风作浪,性别刻板印象之下,往往易不假思索归咎于“虚荣”,而这正是本片女主角原型身体力行打破的僵尸思维。戏里戏外她都不断强调女性叙事,旨在从男权话语权威中夺回女人的主体性。瞻仰安娜诈骗史,一个年轻女孩,从头至尾都纯纯利用“贵族”光环走钢丝,立场鲜明拒绝职场咸猪手,在男性掌权的金融界里愣是靠头脑杀出一条名流路,可谓新时代女性犯罪宣言。要我说,她不仅不虚荣,反而善于利用他人虚荣心为自己开路。看戏外采访,已沦为罪犯的安娜依然谈笑风生,大有成功人士传授创业经之风,戏里安娜却时有歇斯底里的状态,与高级骗子人设不符,人物塑造减分了。不过,总体节奏明快,一口气刷完。

53分钟前
  • 立荔思
  • 力荐

全剧唯一一个正常人就是女主的老公了 以及安娜饰演者真的扮演的很差劲 一点没有聪明的感觉 给人感觉是有妄想症的高中小女孩 女记者那个角色也是 真的让人尴尬的抓狂

54分钟前
  • Max已被注册
  • 较差

叙述视角太可怕了,谁在乎一个reporter怎样采访??您能把重心focus on Anna 么?

58分钟前
  • MichelleLOU
  • 较差

中间有几集还不错,但剧整体太过平庸,感觉真正有意思的角度都没有拍。(Julia太adorable了🐰🌟💖( ;∀;)

1小时前
  • NidomeAoki
  • 还行