Post by Remi on Jul 7, 2006 5:45:02 GMT -5
Issue Date: July 9, 2006
Owen Wilson's Walk of Fame
Don't be fooled by the sleepy drawl and easygoing manner. The Texas-bred, military-schooled, quirky comic star behind next week's "You, Me and Dupree" means business.
By Steve Pond
Cover: Owen Wilson
"It's that middle brother syndrome ... that might give you a little bit of sensitivity."
He's distracted. Walking down a residential street on the west side of Los Angeles, a few blocks from the Cape Cod-style home he bought in the first flush of stardom, Owen Wilson is trying to talk about growing up, about how fame has freed him from the responsibilities his father had, about how he feels as if he's heading in the direction of settling down to have a family. But every couple of sentences, he stops, cocks his head and tries to overhear the two young women talking into a cellphone 20 feet behind him. He listens, shakes his head and moves on. His sandals -- slippers, really, blue fuzzy bedroom slippers -- scuff against the sidewalk. His eyes squint under the brim of a faded blue baseball cap pulled low.
"Kids all have cellphones now," says the 37-year-old actor, his mop of dirty-blond hair sticking out beneath the cap. He frowns. "Camera cellphones."
Wilson takes a couple of steps into the driveway of a two-story house and stops. "Let's let this group go by us," he says, keeping his back to the women and their cellphone. Whereupon his "stalkers" step into a nearby car, apparently oblivious to the fact that the disheveled dude in front of them is a movie star known to pull in $10 million a picture. Wilson watches them drive away, then shrugs. When you're the most laid-back celebrity this side of Willie Nelson (the actor's sometime poker buddy), a little misplaced paranoia is just one thing you learn to take in stride.
He takes things easy; that's Owen Wilson's way. He's smart, to be sure (witness the 2001 Academy Award nomination for co-writing "The Royal Tenenbaums"), and as a comic actor, his wit can be as off-kilter as that notable nose of his. But he moves deliberately, talks slowly. He's "a little tired" when he arrives at an upscale Brentwood take-out joint this day in mid-May, worn out after a trip to Europe on behalf of Pixar's animated hit "Cars," for which Wilson provided the voice of a hotshot rookie race car. In contrast to the motormouth we've seen in everything from "Bottle Rocket" to "Wedding Crashers," his Texas drawl initially oozes out at a pace that falls between understated and comatose.
Then again, lethargy's an effective defense against prying questions or the attentions of one's public. And his public does notice: No sooner does Wilson sit down -- his three plates piled high with kale, beans, mac and cheese, a mini-pizza and a variety of other comestibles ("Let's get a snack," he'd announced) -- than a man at the next table strikes up a conversation about a friend of his who'd recently met Wilson. "She's a good girl, man," the guy insists. "You should call her."
A few minutes later, a woman drops off a note for Wilson, who folds it and puts it in his pocket, sight unseen. And finally, a toddler looks over and announces that he was on his way to Grandma's house, before eyeing Wilson's repast and asking loudly, "Why did the people give you a lot of food for all your friends?"
When the kid leaves, Wilson laughs. "That's kinda the way Dupree is," he says. "But the fact that Dupree is 37 makes him slightly less lovable." Wilson is talking about his cluelessly obnoxious character in the July 14 comedy "You, Me and Dupree," but the offhand comment is one of the only times the actor seizes on a chance to hype his new project. Instead, Wilson lets the conversation ramble, stopping now and then to enthuse over particular favorites of his. When it comes to shows, he TiVos "The Sopranos" and "sports stuff once in a while," watches the British version of "The Office" on DVD, and hears "24" is great but won't watch it because he's afraid he'll get hooked.
Not long ago, his younger brother, actor Luke ("Old School"), turned him on to Bob Dylan, although Owen goes for Dylan's maligned late-period stuff. He reads biographies and World War II books and rarely goes online, sparing him those Internet stories that have dubbed this reputed ladies man the Butterscotch Stallion. "I don't have a computer," he says. "I have a real primitive BlackBerry, and as much as I've gotten into that, I'd be worried if I got a computer. I don't think I need too many more distractions."
It all fits -- the casual attitude, the fact that he leaves the house in slippers and never appears to be trying too hard. But somebody who ought to know says that it'd be a mistake to assume this is all there is to Wilson. "People think Owen's this laid-back guy," says Andrew ("Charlie's Angels"), the oldest of the three Wilson brothers, all of whom are actors. "He is that, but there's a little more going on, trust me." For one thing, Andrew says, the middle brother is more competitive and occasionally more combative than people realize, evidence of which can be found in the BB pellet permanently lodged beneath the skin of Andrew's hand. "Owen had a fort in the top of our barn, and I went out there with a hose and started squirting water into his fort," remembers Andrew of a teenage prank at the family's Dallas home. "I was probably getting his "Playboys" wet. And all of a sudden I saw the barrel of his BB gun come out the door, and he shot me. But I deserved it."
As a kid, Wilson figured he'd be a writer of some sort, advertising jingles, maybe. His father was an ad executive, his mother a photographer. An inattentive student, he was expelled for Xeroxing his high school teacher's geometry book. "[My teacher] was at lunch, and I got it out of his office," Wilson explains. "The school I went to was a very hard school. If I'd gone to a normal school, I probably could've skated by." Instead, he wound up at a military academy in New Mexico, which was not as terrible as it sounds. "It was kinda funny, actually. But it makes for a better story to say it was bad." He grins. "I've gotten a lot of mileage out of the military school bit."
At the University of Texas, he met aspiring director Wes Anderson, who recruited his new pal to co-write and star in a short called "Bottle Rocket." Then, in 1996, they raised $5 million with the help of director James L. Brooks and turned it into a feature film. "Bottle Rocket" tanked at the box office, but it launched Wilson's career and has since become a cult classic.
Although better known for his acting, Wilson is just as fond of the writing, and, often as not, he manages to combine the two. "On the comedies that Owen does, he tends to approach them as a writer as much as an actor," says Anderson, whose four films included Wilson as co-writer ("Rushmore"), actor ("The Life Aquatic") or both ("Tenenbaums"). "He's not thinking, 'How do I play this,' but 'How can we improve this scene?' "
Wilson did just that on Dupree, in which his character is forced to move in with newlywed friends (Matt Dillon and Kate Hudson) and leaves wreckage in his wake. "There were so many times on the set where he'd look at the script and say, 'It could be really funny if this happened,' " producer Scott Stuber says. Stuber points to one key scene in which Dupree subs for his pal at a grade school career day, hilariously expounding on a philosophy that incorporates a mother ship and pods, among other things. "Owen wrote or ad-libbed the entire scene," Stuber says.
Of course, Wilson knows this territory is something of a minefield. "I have to be sensitive to the fact that other actors don't always want to hear your ideas," he says, then frowns. "Which is weird for me. Do you understand why somebody would feel weird about me giving them ideas?" The question isn't rhetorical; he wants an answer. "I don't quite get it." Wilson shrugs, fingers the BlackBerry sticking out of his shirt pocket and decides he wants to go check out classes at a nearby yoga studio. ("Anything where a beginner won't be left behind?" he asks a staffer.)
A few minutes later, class schedule in hand, he plops down at a table on a second-floor patio overlooking a parking lot full of high-end SUVs. He starts musing about exercise (he likes running on the beach, hates the gym), about the time a date took him to hear the Dalai Lama (he wasn't impressed by the Dalai Lama but is still friends with the girl) and his schedule after Dupree. Maybe something in the fall. Maybe Wes Anderson's new movie. Maybe something else. Actor Woody Harrelson, for instance, wants to collaborate with him on a script.
"I think Woody and I would have a good time writing together," he says. "Woody's the middle of three brothers. I get along with middle brothers." He nods slowly. "It's that middle brother syndrome. The older child has a very clear identity, and the baby gets a lot of attention. The middle brother is a little bit in no-man's land," he explains. "That might give you a little bit of sensitivity, a feeling that you're not clearly on the winning team, you know? ..."
He trails off, then realizes whatever it is he's trying to say isn't worth worrying about. "Well, first of all," he says firmly, "it's just not as funny to be on the winning team. I like to feel like the odd man out."
Photographs by Matthias Clamer/Stockland Martel for USA WEEKEND
Hair by Kathrine Gordon, The Milton Agency; makeup by Fiona Connon, The Milton Agency; styling by Arianne Tunney, Avant Groupe
Clothing: T-shirt by James Perse; sweater by Mala from Douglas Fir
Owen Wilson's Walk of Fame
Don't be fooled by the sleepy drawl and easygoing manner. The Texas-bred, military-schooled, quirky comic star behind next week's "You, Me and Dupree" means business.
By Steve Pond
Cover: Owen Wilson
"It's that middle brother syndrome ... that might give you a little bit of sensitivity."
He's distracted. Walking down a residential street on the west side of Los Angeles, a few blocks from the Cape Cod-style home he bought in the first flush of stardom, Owen Wilson is trying to talk about growing up, about how fame has freed him from the responsibilities his father had, about how he feels as if he's heading in the direction of settling down to have a family. But every couple of sentences, he stops, cocks his head and tries to overhear the two young women talking into a cellphone 20 feet behind him. He listens, shakes his head and moves on. His sandals -- slippers, really, blue fuzzy bedroom slippers -- scuff against the sidewalk. His eyes squint under the brim of a faded blue baseball cap pulled low.
"Kids all have cellphones now," says the 37-year-old actor, his mop of dirty-blond hair sticking out beneath the cap. He frowns. "Camera cellphones."
Wilson takes a couple of steps into the driveway of a two-story house and stops. "Let's let this group go by us," he says, keeping his back to the women and their cellphone. Whereupon his "stalkers" step into a nearby car, apparently oblivious to the fact that the disheveled dude in front of them is a movie star known to pull in $10 million a picture. Wilson watches them drive away, then shrugs. When you're the most laid-back celebrity this side of Willie Nelson (the actor's sometime poker buddy), a little misplaced paranoia is just one thing you learn to take in stride.
He takes things easy; that's Owen Wilson's way. He's smart, to be sure (witness the 2001 Academy Award nomination for co-writing "The Royal Tenenbaums"), and as a comic actor, his wit can be as off-kilter as that notable nose of his. But he moves deliberately, talks slowly. He's "a little tired" when he arrives at an upscale Brentwood take-out joint this day in mid-May, worn out after a trip to Europe on behalf of Pixar's animated hit "Cars," for which Wilson provided the voice of a hotshot rookie race car. In contrast to the motormouth we've seen in everything from "Bottle Rocket" to "Wedding Crashers," his Texas drawl initially oozes out at a pace that falls between understated and comatose.
Then again, lethargy's an effective defense against prying questions or the attentions of one's public. And his public does notice: No sooner does Wilson sit down -- his three plates piled high with kale, beans, mac and cheese, a mini-pizza and a variety of other comestibles ("Let's get a snack," he'd announced) -- than a man at the next table strikes up a conversation about a friend of his who'd recently met Wilson. "She's a good girl, man," the guy insists. "You should call her."
A few minutes later, a woman drops off a note for Wilson, who folds it and puts it in his pocket, sight unseen. And finally, a toddler looks over and announces that he was on his way to Grandma's house, before eyeing Wilson's repast and asking loudly, "Why did the people give you a lot of food for all your friends?"
When the kid leaves, Wilson laughs. "That's kinda the way Dupree is," he says. "But the fact that Dupree is 37 makes him slightly less lovable." Wilson is talking about his cluelessly obnoxious character in the July 14 comedy "You, Me and Dupree," but the offhand comment is one of the only times the actor seizes on a chance to hype his new project. Instead, Wilson lets the conversation ramble, stopping now and then to enthuse over particular favorites of his. When it comes to shows, he TiVos "The Sopranos" and "sports stuff once in a while," watches the British version of "The Office" on DVD, and hears "24" is great but won't watch it because he's afraid he'll get hooked.
Not long ago, his younger brother, actor Luke ("Old School"), turned him on to Bob Dylan, although Owen goes for Dylan's maligned late-period stuff. He reads biographies and World War II books and rarely goes online, sparing him those Internet stories that have dubbed this reputed ladies man the Butterscotch Stallion. "I don't have a computer," he says. "I have a real primitive BlackBerry, and as much as I've gotten into that, I'd be worried if I got a computer. I don't think I need too many more distractions."
It all fits -- the casual attitude, the fact that he leaves the house in slippers and never appears to be trying too hard. But somebody who ought to know says that it'd be a mistake to assume this is all there is to Wilson. "People think Owen's this laid-back guy," says Andrew ("Charlie's Angels"), the oldest of the three Wilson brothers, all of whom are actors. "He is that, but there's a little more going on, trust me." For one thing, Andrew says, the middle brother is more competitive and occasionally more combative than people realize, evidence of which can be found in the BB pellet permanently lodged beneath the skin of Andrew's hand. "Owen had a fort in the top of our barn, and I went out there with a hose and started squirting water into his fort," remembers Andrew of a teenage prank at the family's Dallas home. "I was probably getting his "Playboys" wet. And all of a sudden I saw the barrel of his BB gun come out the door, and he shot me. But I deserved it."
As a kid, Wilson figured he'd be a writer of some sort, advertising jingles, maybe. His father was an ad executive, his mother a photographer. An inattentive student, he was expelled for Xeroxing his high school teacher's geometry book. "[My teacher] was at lunch, and I got it out of his office," Wilson explains. "The school I went to was a very hard school. If I'd gone to a normal school, I probably could've skated by." Instead, he wound up at a military academy in New Mexico, which was not as terrible as it sounds. "It was kinda funny, actually. But it makes for a better story to say it was bad." He grins. "I've gotten a lot of mileage out of the military school bit."
At the University of Texas, he met aspiring director Wes Anderson, who recruited his new pal to co-write and star in a short called "Bottle Rocket." Then, in 1996, they raised $5 million with the help of director James L. Brooks and turned it into a feature film. "Bottle Rocket" tanked at the box office, but it launched Wilson's career and has since become a cult classic.
Although better known for his acting, Wilson is just as fond of the writing, and, often as not, he manages to combine the two. "On the comedies that Owen does, he tends to approach them as a writer as much as an actor," says Anderson, whose four films included Wilson as co-writer ("Rushmore"), actor ("The Life Aquatic") or both ("Tenenbaums"). "He's not thinking, 'How do I play this,' but 'How can we improve this scene?' "
Wilson did just that on Dupree, in which his character is forced to move in with newlywed friends (Matt Dillon and Kate Hudson) and leaves wreckage in his wake. "There were so many times on the set where he'd look at the script and say, 'It could be really funny if this happened,' " producer Scott Stuber says. Stuber points to one key scene in which Dupree subs for his pal at a grade school career day, hilariously expounding on a philosophy that incorporates a mother ship and pods, among other things. "Owen wrote or ad-libbed the entire scene," Stuber says.
Of course, Wilson knows this territory is something of a minefield. "I have to be sensitive to the fact that other actors don't always want to hear your ideas," he says, then frowns. "Which is weird for me. Do you understand why somebody would feel weird about me giving them ideas?" The question isn't rhetorical; he wants an answer. "I don't quite get it." Wilson shrugs, fingers the BlackBerry sticking out of his shirt pocket and decides he wants to go check out classes at a nearby yoga studio. ("Anything where a beginner won't be left behind?" he asks a staffer.)
A few minutes later, class schedule in hand, he plops down at a table on a second-floor patio overlooking a parking lot full of high-end SUVs. He starts musing about exercise (he likes running on the beach, hates the gym), about the time a date took him to hear the Dalai Lama (he wasn't impressed by the Dalai Lama but is still friends with the girl) and his schedule after Dupree. Maybe something in the fall. Maybe Wes Anderson's new movie. Maybe something else. Actor Woody Harrelson, for instance, wants to collaborate with him on a script.
"I think Woody and I would have a good time writing together," he says. "Woody's the middle of three brothers. I get along with middle brothers." He nods slowly. "It's that middle brother syndrome. The older child has a very clear identity, and the baby gets a lot of attention. The middle brother is a little bit in no-man's land," he explains. "That might give you a little bit of sensitivity, a feeling that you're not clearly on the winning team, you know? ..."
He trails off, then realizes whatever it is he's trying to say isn't worth worrying about. "Well, first of all," he says firmly, "it's just not as funny to be on the winning team. I like to feel like the odd man out."
Photographs by Matthias Clamer/Stockland Martel for USA WEEKEND
Hair by Kathrine Gordon, The Milton Agency; makeup by Fiona Connon, The Milton Agency; styling by Arianne Tunney, Avant Groupe
Clothing: T-shirt by James Perse; sweater by Mala from Douglas Fir