http://www.time.com/time/arts/articl...714996,00.html
This is from a major fluff piece on Clooney, but I still found it pretty funny. One of the Time writers asked him over to his house for dinner, and he accepted (CHUD writers should try that!). An alarm goes off, and he tries to find the source of it, even going into the attic. The look on his face when he finally finds out what it is, well, it's pretty funny. Check out the video at the link.
This is from a major fluff piece on Clooney, but I still found it pretty funny. One of the Time writers asked him over to his house for dinner, and he accepted (CHUD writers should try that!). An alarm goes off, and he tries to find the source of it, even going into the attic. The look on his face when he finally finds out what it is, well, it's pretty funny. Check out the video at the link.
Quote:
| It's past midnight; we're both pretty buzzed. He's telling me how he wakes up every morning at 5:30 to the hoots of a giant owl and how he climbs into his hot tub so he can hoot back, mesmerized by nature, like Tony Soprano and his ducks, when this alarm starts shrieking. Clooney, not a man of inaction, especially in a moment of crisis like this, stands on my dining-room table, unscrews a panel in the ceiling and, finding nothing, makes me go outside and carry a huge ladder with him up two flights to my garage upstairs—where he climbs into an area I've never dared go, crawling along the beams with a screwdriver between his teeth. Finding nothing, he climbs down, knocks the dirt off his jeans, blows the dust out of his nose, rinses his hands and returns to the table. The shriek starts again, and Clooney thinks for a few seconds, ducks down and yanks the carbon monoxide detector out of the outlet. "Either it needs a battery," he says, "or we have six seconds to live." At 1:30 he gets up to leave. He tells me that the next time I have interviewees over for dinner, I should trick them by passing his house off as mine, maybe with some hired servants, smoking a pipe, pretending journalism is something I do as a lark, separate from my silver-mining interests. As he leaves, I feel as if I failed. In seven hours, I wasn't able to find a part of Clooney different from the one everyone already knows. As he retreats in his movie-star car to his movie-star lair with his giant-owl sidekick, I feel pretty sure he never separates the public from the private. It explains, at least, why he sucked as Batman. Then two nights later I get a chance to run the experiment again. My wife and I figure we'll check out the sushi place Clooney said he's been going to for 15 years. When we walk in, there's only one occupied table, and of course it's Clooney, his girlfriend, his assistant and a friend he met the first day he moved to Los Angeles. He's unprepared for me, out in the open, vulnerable. But he yanks over a table, puts it next to his, tells us what to order, hands us food from his plate, shows us photos of him and the other guy at the table with Keith Richards, reads the cheesy lines he's just been faxed for his Oscar presenting, fights for the check and generally hosts the crap out of us. Clooney is a movie star not because he's overwhelmingly electric or handsome or fascinating. After two very fun nights, I can tell you that he really isn't any of those things. George Clooney is a movie star because he's happiest when he controls how everyone around him feels. Because that's what movies do. |
