At this point she was worrying about typecasting. Brazil still screams under her grasp, but she hears not; in the back of her mind, she is wondering what her agent thought when he got her this gig. She heard the director was a genius, so maybe that explains the weirdness of it all - a sailing ship? A microscope? Stigmata on her left foot? One of those art-house deals, maybe. She vows to herself: this is the last wet-gown shot she's going to do.