Spin Doctor: The Twisted Web of Jesse Eisenberg

It's the most humid day of the summer, making all of Brooklyn seem like a giant Russian bathhouse. I recognize Eisenberg's bike chained outside the juice bar where we had agreed to meet. He greets me, and we enter the establishment, where we order cold drinks.

Eisenberg begins humming to himself before launching into a colorful description of a musical he's supposedly working on-another "80 percent finished" project. "My friend is a musician and likes to sample the Johnny Carson theme, and it sounds really good," Eisenberg tells me. I ask him the name of his musician friend.

"Nas," he replies, a smug expression on his face. "Have you heard of him?"

Having reached my breaking point, it is now time for me to shift from reporter to interrogator.

I proceed to ask Eisenberg several increasingly pointed questions about the information he has shared with me over the course of our meetings: for instance, the "interest" in his novel and his apparent lack of knowledge about the subject matter. Sensing my distrust, Eisenberg starts to backpedal, chewing on the straw from his fruity drink. "It's headed to bookstores nowhere," he quips matter-of-factly. "My writing teacher likes it, though."

At that moment, when I look at Jesse Eisenberg, I see Walt Berkman, his character from The Squid and the Whale, attempting to pass off Pink Floyd's "Hey You" as his own work at a high school talent show. So, what was Walt's justification? "I felt I could have written it, so the fact that it was already written was kind of a technicality."

I ask Eisenberg whether or not he and Walt might have something in common. He searches my face for a moment before responding. "Walt is [supposed to represent] the director [Noah Baumbach] as a 16-year-old boy and I am not arrogant or petulant like my character, who was very self-righteous," he pauses and looks at me again. "Do you think I am like that?"

I smile at him and pose the question point-blank: "Have you been lying to me?"

My frankness appears to catch him off guard, and his mood suddenly changes from being fretfully defensive to outright glum. For the first time, Eisenberg stops fidgeting and talks directly to me. I feel as though I might have finally gotten through.

"I'm on Haldol."

Not the confession I was expecting.

When I ask him for more information about being on Haldol, a look of mild panic comes over his face, like he'd forgotten that the conversation was on the record. He smiles and looks away.

"Maybe," he responds. "I am not sure what I am on."

At this point, I'm not sure what to believe. I give him a look that says as much.

"Oh, I was lying," he recants. "When you do so many interviews, you lose control of your psyche. You start to lie. I don't know."