Joan as Policewoman
Well not a celebrity as such, talented songwriter though.
Well not a celebrity as such, talented songwriter though.
Pete Wentz doesn't count, as he's not a celebrity. Douche/no talent hack? yes. Celebrity? no.
quoteHelena Christensen loves Moz? So I'm not the No.1 danish Moz fan?
something julia riley spotted in one of her true to you fanzines which I scribble up now:
madonna on moz
in an Q magazine around 94:"Im more aware of morrissey in his sexual politics than his music. I`ve listended to some of his records(...) I think he is a brilliant lyricist."
before that moz has vocalized his dislike about madonna, i really was wondering she wasnt bitching back. regardless of her own music she has a good music taste and favours artists who arent already big names, also some of them either join her band (zootwoman), she works with the right producers or she did signed them for her recordlabel.
she has a very reserved and cold aura about her, though.
Michael hutchence (r.i.p.) also in Q around the same time:
Q:" would you snog morrissey for a pound?"
Michael:" of course i would. like a shot . I`d do it for 50 p.
Helena (christensen, model and then girlfriend, also reportely a huge fan)
would be proud of me, She`s mad for morrissey."
also luka bloom who is an irish folk artist declares his love and adoration for morrissey , tht he would like to meet him and said "that moz does a lot for a lot of people"
(Q, december 94 and january 95)
Had Marianne Faithful yet?
And on the hate side is definitely Henry Rollins.
Benicio Del Toro is down on all fours in a shady London hotel suite, writing his name in marker pen across the cleavage of his latest co-star, Emily Blunt. The 42-year-old Oscar winner, Che star and Latin love god is chuckling to himself as he signs his name hurriedly on a stack of posters for his new movie, The Wolfman, noting naughtily, “Sorry, I’m just writing on Emily Blunt.”
Within seconds he’s up on his feet, a bracing vision of Puerto Rican masculinity, in a charcoal black suit and crisp white shirt and with his hooded hazel eyes on full beam. “Morrissey!” he says, excitedly, spotting the letters “orrisse” poking out from an old T-shirt beneath my jacket, before enthusing about the singer’s back catalogue and launching into a rendition of Everyday is Like Sunday. And then — suddenly — he’s down. “J. D. Salinger is dead!” he announces, sinking into the couch, lighting up the first of many Dunhills.
It is worth noting here that Del Toro’s reputation as a “difficult” interviewee precedes him. He once warned a respected British broadsheet writer that he would set his dogs upon him if he asked any more personal questions. He is a well-known fan of obfuscation, exhaled sighs and weary eye-rolls. And he recently stormed out of a Washington Times interview, spitting, “I’m done. I hope you write whatever you want. I don’t give a damn!”
That is why it’s something of a surprise, and indeed a relief, to encounter the ebullience in Del Toro, and to find someone engaged and seemingly free from moody, brooding machismo.
He says, for instance, that the news of Salinger’s death, just over 24 hours old, is still something of a shock for him. “I only read three books in high school,” he says. “The Catcher in the Rye, The Old Man and the Sea and Don Quixote. With the last two I winged it, but I made a connection with Holden Caulfield. I liked the fact that he hated movies but pretended to be a movie gangster. It was weird to me that he hated and loved the same thing. At the time, as a kid, I said, ‘Hey, I feel like that, too!’”
The love-hate thing, you quickly learn, is key for Del Toro, as are the childhood roots. For the actor has cast himself, in life and on screen, as the perennial rebel. Burdened, it seems, by matinee idol looks in the Valentino mould, he is nonetheless loath to play it straight. Wherever possible he piles on extra pounds (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) or loses them (Che), or hides under fright wigs (The Pledge). And when his appearance is untouched, he duly attacks his own performances with an arsenal of accents, twitches and fantastically arcane deliveries — his Usual Suspects director Bryan Singer at first thought that Del Toro’s eccentric turn as Fred Fenster in that film was part of an elaborate practical joke.
Today, however, Del Toro is not so sure about this interpretation of his life. First, he says, he wasn’t using the movie to explore his Oedipal issues. “I’ve explored that in my own head,” he says, smiling calmly, no hint of a walkout in sight. “I don’t need The Wolfman to explore that. And my father didn’t send me to an asylum, and my mom wasn’t killed by a werewolf.” He could stop there, but he continues. “Yes, there are parallels, in that Lawrence loses his mother early. But there are other parallels, too. The fact that he’s an actor, or the fact that my father had weapons, too — he had a permit to carry them, by the way. But you could sit down and write a thesis on all this, and the parallels, but it wouldn’t tell you anything.”
He could really, really, stop there, but he doesn’t. There is a sense, in Del Toro today, that he wants to put an end to the public bashing of his father (who still lives, with his third wife, in Puerto Rico).
“My dad was present,” he says, firmly. “He was strict. Yes. You had to clean your room and shine your shoes every Sunday. But he was present. He was there. He had dinner with me, and breakfast, every day. So, yes, he was tough, and I had bumps like everyone has with their parents. But at the time I was just trying to find myself.”
Del Toro eventually studied in Los Angeles with Stella Adler, the Method-acting guru who taught Marlon Brando, and he quickly became known, or notorious, for his demented working ways. Cast, for instance, as a pretty-boy hatchet man in the Bond movie Licence to Kill, he says that the seriousness with which he approached every single gesture (he does a lot of manic smiling in the film) was not entirely appreciated by those around him. “In my head I thought I was the lead of that movie,” he says, with a half-snort of embarrassment. “But I also realised that I was driving everybody crazy with these little choices. ‘Should I scratch myself this way here? Should I do that there?’ Whatever. I was learning about film acting while doing that movie. I didn’t know anything.”
The Exorcist film-maker William Friedkin, who directed Del Toro in the action film The Hunted, was forced to muse, somewhat tactfully: “I know several directors who would consider the interest that Benicio takes in the script and the dialogue, as well as the story, as sort of meddling.”
And yet, the proof is there on screen. In The Usual Suspects, Del Toro’s breakout role as the small-time criminal Fenster was empty on the page, with little dialogue and no dramatic impact, until Del Toro came along and transformed him into a husky mass of barely audible one-liners and disgruntled sneers.
Elsewhere, he insisted that his Mexican cop in Traffic, though originally written with ambiguities, be utterly righteous — which duly provided the film with a much- needed moral core (and earned Del Toro an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor).
Sometimes his choices have backfired. His decision to play Dr Gonzo as a bloated slob in Terry Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas adaptation was ultimately detrimental to his career. He piled on 40 pounds (“I ate 16 doughnuts a day”) and played the movie in a long unintelligible slur.
Ah, yes, the movie-star looks. It’s that time in the interview, where we must get down and address how he relates to his “sex god” status. “I don’t know what sexy is,” he says, thoughtfully, as if contemplating his beauty for the very first time. “Maybe it’s being comfortable with who you are, and not giving a damn about what people are thinking about. I think part of it is looks, and for that you’ve got to thank my mom and my dad. Good genes, I guess. But the other part is what Stella Adler used to say, ‘You can’t play sexy. Either you are, or you’re not. Period. The minute you try, it shows.’”
He suddenly catches himself, uncomfortable. “It’s not like I’m going, ‘Oh, I’m sexy!’” he says, before pausing, and, trapped between modesty and honesty, reluctantly blurting out, “But, you know, you can’t put it on! And you have to have some kind of appeal to be in movies.”
Typically, and true to stereotype, Del Toro’s personal back catalogue of romance is lengthy and includes Alicia Silverstone, Claire Forlani, Scarlett Johansson, Valeria Golino, Chiara Mastroianni and Minnie Driver. Today, though, he says that he is romantically “in limbo”. Has he not thought of settling down? “Why?” he says, indignantly. “Everyone says, ‘Why isn’t he married?’ But it’s like, ‘F***! Why do I have to get married? Just so I can get divorced?’” He describes his West Hollywood apartment, in unapologetic Men are from Mars terms, as his “cave” and asks me if I have my own cave. I tell him that I’m married, with children, and he leaps up excitedly, “See! You do have a cave! But it’s been invaded!”
He says that in his cave he has two dogs, lots of books and two tortoises that are regularly tended to by the local expert tortoise breeder-cum-smoothie British actor Julian Sands (no, really). Del Toro says that he doesn’t have time for marriage anyway, and that he’s always working on forthcoming projects. The next of these, depending on scheduling, may be either a new Martin Scorsese movie called Silence, about 17th-century Jesuit monks and co-starring Daniel Day-Lewis, o
He lights another Dunhill and slips back into easy anecdotal mode. He tells a story about presenting at the 2002 Oscars where, true to his bad-boy image, he presents the award but doesn’t take his seat in the auditorium, and instead slinks off home to watch it on TV. However, he goes to Sir Elton John’s party later that night, where he is approached by Sir Paul McCartney, who taps him on the shoulder and says, “Benicio, where were you? You were supposed to be sitting beside me all night.” Being a lifelong Beatles obsessive, much handwringing ensued.
He also talks of how his Oscar win finally convinced his father that his acting career was here to stay. And he remembers one of his first roles, as a sweet-faced extra, nodding his head and smiling, in the Madonna pop promo La Isla Bonita (“I’ve known her for years, and she’s very nice about it”). He talks some more, about his Bond audition, and about his first high school romance. And, as he does, and as we close, I wonder why he’s not at all like the brooding, simmering, Latin stormer-outer of legend. Is he, I wonder, strangely content with his life right now?
“No!” he says, recoiling in horror at the very idea. “I’m driven by obstacles that come around in my life. Whether they’re goals, whether I’ve put them there by myself, or whether they arrive on their own. I’m not, like, content. Content sounds a little too passive.” And then he smiles his very own, yes, wolfish smile, and adds: “And as we know, that’s just not me.”
The Wolfman is on general release from February 12
Benicio Del Toro is also a Morrissey fan.
Well, Manson didn't seem, to me, a fan of The Smiths or Morrissey. According to his autobiography Long Hard Road Out Of Hell, he just basically thinking liking the Smiths (or having sex with a girl who likes The Smiths) makes you a homosexual. Or if your middle, first, or last name is Morrissey. Or if you're cutting your hair while a Morrissey song is playing. Basically, if you know who Morrissey is, you're gay... According to the Antichrist Superstar, that is.