Imagine being Orson in that ad and having to be all like "damn, Paul Masson California champagne, you fuckin' fine, all delicious with your in-the-bottle fermentation and horrific faux-French monstrous taste. I would totally drink you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is drink another $5,000 Dom Perignon in his dressing room. Like seriously imagine having to be Orson and not only sit in that chair while the extra pours his disgusting California champagne in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing the suspicious-looking sediment building in it, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while he perfected that pour. Not only having to tolerate the monstrous fucking taste but Paul Mason's haughty attitude as everyone on set says it's STILL GOT IT and DAMN, PAUL MASON CHAMPAGNE TASTES LIKE *THAT*?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and drink the disgusting fucking piss water contorting your palette into horrific flavours you didn't even know existed before that day. You've been drinking nothing but a healthy diet of Krug and Bollinger and later alleged moonshine for your ENTIRE CAREER coming straight out of the boonies in Wisconsin. You've never even drunk anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear you can taste the chemical contaminants that fell into this mass produced sham pigswill as it's poured again and again for you, the extra smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in the "French quality (for that is what they call it)" taste, the taste they worked so hard for with fermentation techniques in the previous months. And then the director calls for another take, and you know you could break a bottle and stab everyone in this room, but you sit there and endure, because you're fucking Orson Welles. You're drunk as fuck and don't know why the extra doesn't do anything. Just bear it. Slur your lines and bear it.