saw the dailies for The Patriot, well before the movie's release last summer. That is why, he explains, he ended up on the cover of Vanity Fair a year ago: "The studio was like, 'Let's create a fucking star so our movie will make money.''' Now his face adorns bus boards, beside the tagline: "He will rock you." His is the only mug on the press kit. Ledger is unhappy about that -- it's an ensemble film, he reminds -- but not surprised. It's the studio's way of making him responsible for the film's success. "It's called passing the buck," he says, laughing. "Someone to blame. And I don't let it get to me, because my job's done. I'm not in a hurry to be a star. Ihad no choice. That's where you really feel a little weight, but that's their job."

Back to the TV station. Just as he was walking in, a handful of young private-school girls in white oxfords and plaid skirts charged at him. It was a hard day's night in the middle of the afternoon, and the driver of Ledger's Suburban rounded them up in his thick arms to keep them at bay. Once they calmed down, three of the girls approached Ledger "just to say hi," explains one. They shook his hand, stared, stammered. Ledger, a good sport, wore the cockeyed smirk of the dazed and bemused. After they left, he explained that such encounters, which have become more frequent, are "surreal." A beat. "And confusing."

Finally, he sits for the